


Glass: Reader Requests

by daydreamtofiction



Series: Glass [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 221B Baker Street, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Real World, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, BBC, Benedict Cumberbatch - Freeform, Canon Compliant, F/M, Gift Fic, One Shot, One Shot Collection, Original Character(s), RPF, Romance, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-10
Updated: 2020-12-28
Packaged: 2021-03-04 23:27:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 20
Words: 57,241
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25174597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daydreamtofiction/pseuds/daydreamtofiction
Summary: Glass series one shots based on reader requests (across fanfic platforms).See the first chapter for further details!
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/Original Female Character(s)
Series: Glass [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1545352
Comments: 70
Kudos: 325





	1. Foreword

Now that the second story in the Glass series has come to an end, I wanted to set up a book for reader requested one shots based on my BBC Sherlock fic series (which you can find on my page!)

If you have anything you want to read, any scenarios or situations you want to see Sherlock and Margaux or any of the other characters in, please feel free to leave it in a comment (or send me a message if you want it to be an anonymous request) and I'll get to writing it! Whether it's super fluffy, drama/angst, romance or non-romance, comedy whatever. Whether it's compliant with the Glass canon or something completely different like future, past, present, another timeline etc. You get the picture. I'd be happy to give it a try for you.

I've never done this before and I don't even know if anyone would want to request anything but I'll be leaving this book up indefinitely and posting as frequently as the requests come in.

Some basic rules/guidelines:

\- This is ~technically~ part of the glass series, so I probably wouldn't feel comfortable writing anything that shipped Sherlock or Margaux with anyone else.

\- You can be as detailed as you like in your request (eg. Give descriptions of settings, how you want the narrative to play out etc) or you can simply give me a prompt (eg. Sherlock and Margaux meet at uni) and I'll try and write something based off it.   
  


\- Smut/adult requests are fine. But those one shots may take a little longer for me to post as I like to take my time writing them to make sure they’re done well!

\- Although I probably won't reply to your request, please know that I HAVE seen it and added it to the list. 

\- You can make as many requests as you like. Just know that if (by magic) I end up receiving a lot, it may take a while to get to yours!  
  


\- Some one shots may be requests from readers on other sites as I crosspost to FFN and Wattpad.

Thank you guys!


	2. Quarantine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Requested on Wattpad - 'I did wonder how Sherlock and Margaux would cope during quarantine with a slightly older Vaughan and Flora, so if you could write that I would love to read it! x'

Day one

Margaux sat perched on the edge of the couch, resting her chin on her fist, the tv remote in her other hand. The light from the screen reflected in her wide amber eyes as she watched intently and there was a pit in her stomach that she couldn't quite place.

Sherlock walked into the living room with his face buried in his phone. He looked up for just a moment, his eyes darting between his wife and the television.

"Who's that?" he asked.

"Who's _that_?" she looked up at him with confusion before pointing at the screen. "Sherlock, that's the prime minister..."

"He looks like an idiot."

"Mm, well you're not wrong."

He began to speak but she shushed him quickly, waving her hand and gesturing for him to sit down. She turned up the volume and watched quietly.

_'From this evening I must give the British people a very simple instruction - you must stay at home.'_

"Why is his desk so small?" said Sherlock. "And what's wrong with his hair?"

"Shush, Sherlock. I think he's announcing a lockdown."

"Well yes, he is - Mycroft told me about it earlier."

"And you didn't think to inform me?"

"I was about to." He held up his phone, revealing a text from his brother. "But you kept shushing me."

"Oh... sorry."

_'You should not be meeting friends. If your friends ask you to meet, you should say No. You should not be meeting family members who do not live in your home...'_

"Poor Mrs Hudson's going to be by herself," said Margaux as she chewed the nail on her index finger. "Your mum and dad won't be able to see the kids."

"I can't see John," he said. There was a slight gasp in his voice, horror in his tone.

_'And therefore I urge you at this moment of national emergency to stay at home, protect our NHS and save lives. Thank you.'_

The screen faded to black. Margaux took a deep breath.

"If he was truly concerned about saving lives, he'd have enforced these measures weeks ago," said Sherlock before walking into the hall and taking his coat off the hook.

"What are you doing?" she asked as she followed behind.

"I'm going to Baker Street. If I'm to work from home for the foreseeable future then I'd like to go and get my things and bring them here."

"Love, you can't. That's the point. You can't go out, you can't go into other people's homes - you _have_ to stay inside."

He stood quietly for a moment, the realisation slowly blooming across his face, creating lines in his forehead, wrinkles on the bridge of his nose.

"So I'm just stuck here," he said plainly.

"Oh thanks..."

"We're all stuck here."

"Yep."

He hung his coat back up and sighed.

"It could be nice," she smiled. "To have all this time to spend together."

Suddenly, a loud bang rattled the ceiling above them, followed by the sound of Vaughan and Flora screaming at each other from upstairs.

Sherlock and Margaux looked at each other for a moment.

"Maybe not..." she added.

Day Twenty

Sherlock placed the laptop on the kitchen island and stepped back. He ushered Vaughan to stand in front and lifted Flora, holding her on his hip.

"Hello!" a voice sounded through the laptop speaker, but the screen was dark.

"Dad, are you there?" he asked.

"Yes, we're here. Happy Birthday Flora!" his father replied.

"Happy Birthday!" his mother chimed in.

"We can't see you. Is your camera on?"

"I don't know, how would I check?"

The picture on the screen began to move, showing Mr Holmes' legs.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Dad, you need to switch your phone to the front-facing camera..."

"What's that now?" The scene shifted to a shot of their living room wall.

"You're pointing your camera at the wall, we can't see you!"

"Oh, what do we do?"

"I've told you, switch your-"

Vaughan stepped forward, bringing himself closer to the laptop. "Grandad, in the corner there's a camera icon with a little arrow. Click it."

Within moments, the picture of Mr and Mrs Holmes appeared on screen. Their heads pressed together as they smiled and waved.

"There we are," said Mr Holmes. "Can you see us now?"

"Mm." Sherlock mumbled.

"Happy Birthday Flora," Mrs Holmes sang. "Have you had a nice day so far?"

Flora nodded, pointing to the large, round badge with a glittery '4' pinned to her top. "Nanny I got a new scooter. It's pink."

"Oh did you really? That's lovely dear. And how are you, Vaughan?"

"Good," he shrugged. "Me and Dad-"

"Dad and I," Sherlock corrected.

"Dad and I have been practicing violin so we can play for her later."

"Well aren't you just the best big brother ever!" Mrs Holmes leaned in closer, her eyes so blue they were almost piercing through the screen. "Where's your mother?"

Sherlock put Flora down and swivelled the laptop around, pointing it to the counter where Margaux stood battling with a mixing bowl, her top covered in icing sugar. She turned around and waved before wiping her brow with her arm.

"She's attempting to make a birthday cake," said Sherlock. "So there's a possibility we may all be dead by morning."

"Hey!" Margaux shouted.

There was a knock at the front door. Sherlock ended the call and made his way down the hall, instructing his children to remain in the kitchen. He peered through the peep hole before opening the door.

A gift bag sat on the doorstep with a helium balloon tied to the handle. At the bottom of the driveway, John stood with Rosie.

"Thought we'd pay a quick, socially-distant visit," John called. "I gave the presents a clean before I wrapped them. Though I don't doubt you'll be disinfecting it all the second we leave."

Flora popped out from behind her father's legs, her face lighting up as she saw the gift waiting for her. She reached out immediately, taking the bag and balloon and rushing back inside with them. Sherlock looked down, pressing his mouth into a straight line.

John let out a laugh. "Won't keep you. Just wish her happy birthday from us."

"And will you ask Vaughan to text me back?" added Rosie.

Sherlock furrowed his brow. "You're seven, why do you even have a phone?"

"It's a long story," said John.

The Holmes' spent the rest of the day playing games and eating Margaux's attempt at a birthday cake, and as the blue sky began to darken, the air growing colder, Sherlock and Vaughan took out their violins and began to play.

Day Fifty-Four

He walked across the crime scene, each step careful and calculated. He closed his eyes and pressed his gloved fingers to his temples as he began to slip into his mind palace.

"Are you psychic or something?" said the new detective with a snort.

He was certain he could never dislike someone more than Anderson. Yet here he was, Detective Collins - as small and annoying as a stone in the bottom of a shoe. Sherlock gave an exasperated sigh, his hot breath filling the mask covering his mouth and nose. He rolled his eyes as they opened and turned to him.

"Collins, we're in the middle of a pandemic for gods sake, give me some space." He gestured for him to back off, watching as he began to walk backwards slowly. "Keep going. Keep going. More. More. Further..."

Detective Collins was now standing on the other side of the crime scene. "Are you joking?" he called out, raising his arms. "The rules say two metres - I'm miles away!"

"The further the better. Can't risk being infected with your stupid."

He returned to his mind palace. But it wasn't long before another voice interrupted him again.

"I really tried not to call on you," said Greg. "But we're just a bit... stumped. I feel like we're missing something."

"You were right to call me."

"I was?"

"Yes. It got me out of homeschool duties."

*

Margaux sat at the dining table with the children. Flora was sat beside her, boosted up on a pile of cushions as she painted on a large sheet of paper. Vaughan sat opposite, his elbow propped on the table, his bored face resting in his hand.

Margaux cleared her throat and rubbed her eyes. "Come on, just a bit more and then you can take a break."

He threw down his pen and huffed. "I don't want to do it."

"Why? Are you not understanding something?" she asked kindly. "Do you need me to explain it?"

"No I understand it all, I just don't want to do it."

"Well that's silly, isn't it. If you understand it then just do it. In the time you've sat arguing with me, you could've had it done."

"Mummy can I have more paper?" asked Flora.

"Hm? Yes, just one second love. Vaughan, you-"

"I'm not learning anything new!" he threw himself back, slouching into the dining chair. "It's just the same boring stuff on every page!"

"Mummy. Paper."

"My friends from school said their parents let them do whatever they want."

"This isn't a holiday, Vaughan. This is a lockdown. Your teachers set work for you and you're going to do it." Margaux turned to see her daughter wiping her paint-drenched hands over the table. "Flora! What are you doing!?"

"You wouldn't get me paper..."

"I told you to wait a minute!" She stood up and began trying to clean the mess. "Do the work, Vee."

"It's like you want me to be miserable," he grumbled.

She felt her cheeks go hot, the anger bubbling up from her stomach. She stood up straight and slammed the bottles of paint onto the table.

"I _want_ you to be miserable!? You think I'm spending my time sitting here with you every single day to upset you!?" she was shouting, so loud her throat began to hurt. "You want to know what it's like to have a mother who _wants_ you to be miserable? My mother treated me like dirt; I _never_ got help with my homework, I _never_ heard her say 'I love you'. If I got paint on the furniture like this, do you know what would've happened? I'd have been beaten up, starved, maybe both!"

Vaughan sat quietly, staring at her with wide eyes.

"I'm done wasting my time. Clean your sister up and go to your room."

She stormed out, slamming the door behind her.

*

Sherlock had never seen London so quiet. The streets were bare, the roads quiet. He was walking home - the idea of getting a taxi making him shudder - when the sound of music in the distance caught his ear. He continued walking in the direction of his street when the music began to morph into the noise of a party.

He narrowed his eyes, glaring across the road at a house. The front garden was filled with people, dancing, drinking, children playing. He found himself crossing the road, batting away Margaux's voice as she told him to let it go. But he couldn't.

"Looks like fun. I'd ask if I could stay for a beer but it looks like you're already overcapacity..." he said sarcastically.

"What's that, mate? Can't understand you with that thing over your mouth," replied a man wearing a football top and denim shorts.

"It's more logical to assume that the blaring music is the issue here, not your inability to lipread."

The man reluctantly turned down the speaker.

Sherlock clasped his hands together behind his back. "Are you aware there is currently a country-wide lockdown? A lockdown is a state of isolation or restricted access instituted as a security measure - in this case the restriction being close contact with people you don't live with. So unless this little terraced house is somehow home to all sixteen of you, I'd say you're either extremely selfish or extremely stupid. Which one is it?"

*

He stepped through the door, kicking off his shoes and removing his mask. The house was uncharacteristically quiet, enough to make him call out their names.

"In here," Margaux's voice echoed from the kitchen.

He walked through, making his way to the sink and beginning to wash his hands.

"I know you're going to tell me off, but on my way home I may or may not have broken up an illegal gathering."

"Mm." Her reply was weak, unbothered.

He dried his hands and turned around to see her leaning against the counter. Her hand was covering her mouth, her eyes red as tears escaped down her cheeks. She was sniffing, trying her best to keep her cries quiet.

"Margaux, what's wrong?"

She looked up at him and shook her head, unable to speak. He stepped forward and wrapped his arms around her, holding her tight to his chest and resting his chin on top of her head.

"Please tell me what's wrong."

She sniffed again and cleared her throat. "It, erm... Things just got a bit on top of me. Vaughan was being difficult and Flora made a mess. I shouted at them and now I'm crying because I feel bad."

"Don't feel bad. Telling them off is part of our job as parents."

"No, not like this. I really shouted, Sherlock. I almost scared myself."

"It's okay," he whispered. "Where are they?"

"Upstairs."

He stroked his hand over the back of her head and tightened his embrace. Holding her, with no plans to let go.

Day Seventy-Two 

The sun sat high in the sky, intense and almost unbearable. The air was thick and hot, the ground sizzling beneath its rays. Margaux sat in a bikini on a lounger the back garden, her knees to her chest and a book in her hand. She glanced over the top of her sunglasses as the children played in the paddling pool. Flora filled a plastic bucket and splashed it over Vaughan's head. He giggled and began to chase her, over the grass before picking her up and throwing her back in the water.

Margaux laughed, closed her book and placed it on the table beside her. She got up, hurrying quickly inside as the floor burned her bare feet. The house was cool and quiet, providing relief from the unrelenting heatwave outside. She walked across the kitchen, letting the cold tiles soothe the soles of her feet.

"Sherlock?" she called out as she stepped into the hall.

No answer. She walked into the living room, noticing the doors of the study were open.

"Anybody there?" she said as she approached.

He was sitting at the desk with his back to her, his laptop open as he scoured through his emails.

"Yes, I'm here," Sherlock replied. "Trying to solve some cases." 

"Via email?"

"Yes. I do it all the time. I was planning on video calling John but he's not answering."

"He's probably out enjoying the sun like everyone else." She paused. "Like _you_ should be..."

He swivelled around in his chair to see her standing in her bikini. She was resting against the doorframe, a light pink sunburn beginning to form across the bridge of her freckled nose.

She watched as his eyes trailed her body and held back a smirk. "I saw that."

"Saw what?"

"That look you just gave me."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

She laughed and stepped towards him as he stayed put in the chair, placing her hands on his shoulders. He looked up at her, running his palms up her thighs and resting them on her backside.

"A bit of sun might do you some good," said Margaux. "You could bring your laptop out and work in the garden."

There was a deep, gravely hum in the back of his throat. "Mm. I think I'd be too distracted." He dug his fingers gently into her flesh.

She laughed softly before bending forward and kissing him deeply.

"Ew!" Vaughan stood in the door way with a grimace. "Seriously?" 

Sherlock took his hands off Margaux and placed them on the arms of his chair.

She turned around with a raised eyebrow. "What?"

"I don't want to see you two kissing."

"Then go away," said Sherlock.

Margaux choked back a laugh.

"I just wanted to ask if I could put more water in the pool," said Vaughan.

"Of course you can. Use the hose, it's already connected."

He nodded before glaring at them both suspiciously as he back away, disappearing back outside. Margaux shook her head and sat down on Sherlock's lap, draping an arm over his shoulder.

"Come on, come outside," she said. "Let's take advantage of us all being stuck at home."

"I really don't like the sun."

She lay a trail of kisses along his jaw. "Please?"

He sighed, glancing out the window at the blazing sun and clear blue sky.

Day 108

"I'm bored," said Flora.

"Me too," said Vaughan.

The pair of them were sitting on top of Sherlock as he lay on the couch.

"Me too," he said.

"Why don't you take them out?" Margaux called in from the study. "You could see if John and Rosie wanted to meet up in the park or something?"

"And how do you suppose I stop a four-year-old from running up and hugging them or, I don't know... licking a lamppost or something?"

Flora looked down at her father as she sat on his stomach. "I'm not stupid, Daddy."

Margaux returned to her work. "Well I can't help with the boredom, sorry."

Sherlock brought his hands together in a startling, thunderous clap, making both children jump in fright.

"I've got it," he said. "Let's solve a case."

"Nope," Margaux shouted.

"Not a _real_ one!" He looked at the kids with excitement. "Why don't I put together a pretend case, and you two have to solve it."

"Like a murder mystery?" asked Vaughan.

"Just play Cluedo, it's less effort," Margaux quipped.

Sherlock climbed out from underneath them and hurried across the living room until he reached the study.

He looked at his wife with a fake smile. "Bye bye," he said before closing the doors and shutting her inside.

He pivoted on his heels. "What do you say?"

*

Vaughan stood in the hall wearing a coat that looked just like his father's, a magnifying glass in one hand and a notepad in the other. Flora stood beside him giggling excitedly, her dark curls cascading from beneath Sherlock's deerstalker hat.

Sherlock walked down the stairs, stopping on the bottom step and placing his hands behind his back.

"Ah, Master and Miss Holmes, so glad you could come," he said. "We have a problem upstairs."

He led them back up, ushering them into Flora's bedroom. "It seems as though a teddy has been stolen. But where has it gone?"

Vaughan looked through his magnifying glass at the array of stuffed animals lining her bed. "Flora, can you figure out which one's missing?"

She walked up and down, examining her toys closely before letting out a gasp. "Bertie!" she cried, pointing to the empty space beside her pillow.

Bertie was a large, dark brown teddy bear with a red bow tie. It was large and heavy, almost the same size as Flora. Vaughan turned around and crouched down, noticing a small trail of stuffing leading back out of the room.

Sherlock followed them around the house as they searched for clues, staying quiet and letting them lead the way. They found the red bowtie hanging on the dining room door handle, a mysterious note taped under a chair.

Margaux stepped out of the study, folding her arms and watching with amusement as they scoured the living room, squealing excitedly when they found another clue. She sat down with a laugh as they attempted to interview her, using their most serious voices and narrowing their eyes suspiciously.

They followed the clues to the window above the kitchen sink. Vaughan lifted his sister up, asking her what she could see. She reached out and picked up another piece of stuffing. He put her down and leaned forward, assessing the view from the window and noticing the playhouse in his eye line.

"Out there!" he shouted, grabbing her hand as they ran into the back garden.

Sherlock watched from the french doors, chuckling to himself as they pulled the missing bear from the playhouse and began cheering. Margaux joined him at his side, placing a hand on his back.

"You do realise you're going to have to do this every day now?" she said.

"That's alright, I think I can manage that."

"They're saying lockdown could continue for months. Do you have that many pretend cases in your repertoire?"

"Mm, I didn't think this through, did I?"

They stood quietly for a while as they watched the children play in the back garden.

"I'm proud of us," she said.

"What for?"

"Three months in quarantine and we still like each other."

"Give it time," he replied plainly.

She laughed and wrapped her other arm around him, resting her head on his chest.


	3. The Holmes Children

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Requested on Wattpad: 'I think it would be a cute idea to do a oneshot on Vaughan (or maybe an older Vaughan and Flora) going to Scotland Yard for a case, or even them having to come by and causing absolute chaos in the building!'

_Gone on a last minute cruise, will be back next Saturday. Please make sure you lock the front door when you leave and please don't do anything illegal while I'm gone. Mrs H x_

They stood outside her flat, eyes narrowed as they stared at the note taped to the door.

"Who the hell goes on a 'last minute cruise'?" asked John.

"Mrs Hudson apparently," Sherlock replied. "Obviously off on another romantic trip with the man from her karate class."

"What man?"

"Widower. Wealthy. Can't remember his name."

"Right, well it was nice of her to warn us. What are we supposed to do now?" John turned around, gesturing to the two kids behind them.

Vaughan was leaning against the wall with his face buried in his game, while Flora was attempting to go upstairs.

"Whoa, where are you going?" asked Sherlock as he scrambled to catch her, pulling her into his arms and placing her back down on the floor.

She glared up at him through her long, dark eyelashes, folding her arms across her chest with a huff.

John began to pace the floor. "We took a case, Sherlock. What are we going to do?"

"Auntie Molly," said Vaughan.

"She's working."

"Uncle Mycroft?"

"You're joking, aren't you."

"What about auntie Rose?"

"No," John replied quickly.

Sherlock turned to him with a raised eyebrow. "Why not?"

"It's..."

"Complicated," Vaughan finished.

"Right well, I guess you're just going to have to come with us," said Sherlock.

It was the summer holidays. Six whole weeks of no school and the children moaning that they were bored. Bored of their toys, bored of their home and bored of their parents. John had been lucky that Rosie's school offered a summer programme. But for Sherlock, he was stuck. Each morning Margaux would leave for work, begging him to always make sure he found a babysitter before embarking on a case.

He had tried, he thought, as he ushered the children out of Baker Street. But surely one little case wouldn't hurt.

*

Greg Lestrade sat in his office with the phone to his ear. On the other end of the line, the Superintendent growled at him.

"Yes sir." Greg rested his elbow on the desk and rubbed his eyes. "I understand 'consulting detective' isn't a real position."

He paused, moving the phone away from his ear as he continued to shout.

"No, I only grant him access to crime scenes when necessary- Well, yes, sometimes he does go off on his own but- Of course sir I underst- Yes, I will."

The superintendent's voice grew muffled as Greg became distracted by the sound of a commotion in the bullpen. He stood up, brow furrowed as his office door opened and a flustered sergeant hurried into the room.

"Sorry, sir, can you just give me a minute?" he said before placing his palm over the phone. "What's going on out there?"

"Sherlock Holmes is here," said the sergeant. "And he's brought his kids."

*

Four-year-old Flora stood beside a police officer as he sat at a computer. She was tiny, her bright blue eyes barely skimming the top of the desk as she stood with her hands behind her back.

"What's that?" she asked.

"This is a report," he replied.

"Did you write it?"

"I did."

"What's it for?"

"It er.. it's like a story where I write about what I did yesterday."

"Why?"

"Well, because that's what police officers have to do as part of our job."

"Why?"

"So that my boss knows what I've been up to."

"Why?"

"Because he needs to make sure I'm catching naughty people."

"Why?"

The vein in the officer's neck began to pulsate.

Across the room, Vaughan crouched in front of a filing cabinet, sliding each drawer open and peering inside.

"Excuse me, little boy, you can't look in there," said an officer as she rushed towards him.

"Why not?" he asked, continuing to run his fingers over the files.

"Well because there's a lot of important things in there. Some of it isn't appropriate for children to see."

He rolled his eyes and turned to her. "I've been attending crime scenes since I was a baby. I think I'll be okay."

She stood in shock, wide-eyed as she watched the boy continue to sift through the drawers.

"Ooh this looks like a good one. Double Homicide," he said as he pulled out a folder and read the label carefully. He opened it, glancing over the first page before looking up at her. "What does putrefaction mean?"

She gasped, almost choking on her own saliva.

Greg stepped out of the office with a look of bewilderment on his face. How could two children cause so much mayhem? They were like tornadoes ripping through the bullpen and leaving destruction in their wake.

He looked around but Sherlock and John were nowhere to be found. They were up to something, he thought, pressing his mouth into a straight line.

*

"Hurry up," John hissed as he kept watch.

"I'm trying, just shut up," Sherlock whispered back as he picked the lock on the evidence room.

"I think you forget sometimes that things like this are totally illegal."

"If we get caught you can say I overpowered you, forced you to help."

"Who's going to believe that? There's no way you could overpower me-"

Sherlock snorted out a laugh. "Okay, John."

John shook his head and sneered.

The lock popped open. The pair let out a sigh and bundled into the room to search for the clue that would help them solve their case. But after a few moments, a familiar voice bellowed from the doorway.

"And to think I've just been defending you to the Super," said Greg.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and emerged from behind a shelf. "I'll put it back when I'm finished."

Greg raised an eyebrow.

"Promise," he added with false sincerity.

"Your tin lids are disrupting my police station."

"My... what?"

"Tin lids," said John. "Cockney rhyming slang for 'kids'."

Sherlock grimaced.

"I need you out of here, now." Greg folded his arms. "Go now and I'll pretend I never saw this."

"Can I take this with m-"

"No!"

"Well then I'm not going anywhere."

"Sherlock, your two mini-me's are out there causing havoc. I need them out, now."

"And I'm on the verge of solving the most interesting case I've had in months. I'm not leaving."

Greg stood there for a moment in a silent standoff, glancing between Sherlock and John.

"Right then, I'll just call your wife."

"You wouldn't dare."

"Wouldn't I?" he took out his phone and dialled the number.

"That's a dirty tactic."

"Needs must- Hi, Margaux! Listen I'm having a bit of a problem here at the station..."

John stepped closer to Sherlock, leaning in and talking quietly. "Let's just go."

"What!? Why? Do you really think I'm _scared_ of my wife?"

"I am."

*

"My dad told me police are stupid and that's why you always need his help," said Flora as she reached for the pepper spray on one of the officer's belts.

"Whoa there!" the officer jumped back, moving the canister out of the little girl's reach. "You're saying _we're_ stupid, do you not realise this is a very dangerous thing you're trying to touch?"

She stared at him with a blank expression, blinking slowly. "I'm four."

Vaughan crept up behind him, holding a finger to his lips. Flora glanced at her brother for a second before turning her attention back to her argument.

The officer felt a shift behind him and turned to see the little boy running away with the baton from his belt.

"Hey! Give that back!" he shouted as he began to chase him.

Vaughan laughed, running at full speed between the desks, knocking over papers and half-drank cups of coffee as he went. He climbed up on a chair and whipped the baton to its full length.

"Wow," he gasped, his eyes sparkling as he thought of all the things he could smash. He held it up in the air like a sword. "I am Vaughan Cave Holmes, king of the police station!"

A pair of arms wrapped around him from behind and dragged him down. He looked over his shoulder to see a big, burly man holding him.

He observed his bald head and casual t-shirt. "What rank are you, then?"

"Shut up, lad," the man replied as he walked with Vaughan under one arm.

"Rude."

*

Margaux pushed open the heavy metal door and walked down the corridor towards the interrogation rooms. She was angry. But the anger was being outshined by another feeling entirely - embarrassment.

She opened the door to the first interrogation room to see both of her children sat at the table like criminals. She sighed.

"What have you two done?"

"Mummy are we being arrested?" asked Flora.

"Why would you be arrested?"

"Because we were naughty."

"We weren't naughty," said Vaughan. "It's not our fault we're smarter than them."

"You're spending too much time with your father."

Greg appeared in the doorway, a look of relief on his face to see her.

"You do realise you've _detained_ a four-year-old and nine-year-old like criminals, don't you?" she said.

"Yeah, sorry about that."

Margaux let out a huff. "Where is he?"

...

"She went on a cruise!" Sherlock shouted. "What was I supposed to do?"

" _Not_ bring them here!"

They were in another interrogation room. Sherlock and John sat at the table as Margaux stood in front of them, berating them like naughty schoolchildren.

"We left them alone for five minutes while we went to the evidence room," said Sherlock. "How was I supposed to know they'd cause so much chaos in five minutes?"

"Because they're _your_ children," she replied bluntly.

"She's got a point," John added.

"Sherlock, I worked nonstop all morning. I only went out to get a bloody coffee and by the time I came back, my daughter had argued with the entire department and my son had stolen a dangerous weapon."

"You have to admit that's rather impressive."

She growled across the table.

John stood up. "Right well I'm going. I'd like to say this has been fun but it hasn't."

He walked out, leaving them alone together, the fluorescent lights flickering above their heads.

Margaux pulled up a chair, sitting down with her face in her hands. "I shouldn't have to tell you off like this."

"Then don't."

"If I don't then who will?"

No one spoke again for a while. Finally, it was Sherlock who broke the silence.

"Flora called one of the officers stupid."

She looked up at him, their eyes meeting for a moment before they both began to laugh.

Margaux rubbed her eyes and shook her head. "I don't know what to do with them. If this is what they're like now, imagine when they're teenagers."

"We won't stand a chance."

She stood up. "Come on. Lestrade said I can leave early to take you home."

He followed her out of the room.

*

They walked out of the building with the children in tow. Margaux took Flora's hand as they walked across the car park. Sherlock placed a hand on the back of Vaughan's neck as they followed behind.

"Sorry dad," he said.

"What for?"

"For getting us all arrested."

"We weren't arrested. Even if we were, you know they can never keep a Holmes in handcuffs for too long."

Vaughan giggled before his face fell into seriousness again. "Did we spoil your case?"

"Mm, not at all. On the contrary, you provided the perfect distraction."

Sherlock reached into his pocket and pulled out the piece of evidence he had smuggled when no one was looking.

"Don't tell your mother," he whispered.


	4. The Making Of

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Requested on Wattpad: 'This may be weird and I totally understand if it's not something you'd want to write. But I see your series as so real I'd love to see a piece about the actors behind the scenes as if glass was actually being filmed. Again I know that real person fics aren't for everyone but yeah..'
> 
> Author's Note: I've never done a RPF before but had a really good time working on this one shot for the requester. It almost feels like the start of a series in itself!

2009

  
I was home. This time, indefinitely. Stepping off the plane into the mild, English spring was a welcomed feeling. But the double-takes as I walked through the airport was something I didn't think I'd ever get used to. People were looking at me, then looking away, then looking back at me again, as if they knew me but couldn't quite put their finger on how.

Living in LA, I'd grown used to being asked for a photo in a coffee shop, or having my character's name called out to me as I jogged down the street. A recurring role in a TV show elicited attention – online fan pages, articles and interviews, pictures taken of my ex-boyfriend and I from across the road as we tried to eat our lunch. But the UK was different. When I came home, I was almost completely anonymous, and I rather liked it that way.

Besides a few small roles in TV dramas and sitcoms, I never made a mark in Britain. Which is why I had spent the past three years playing an American FBI agent on US television. I loved it. But when my character was killed off, I took it as a sign - it was time to move back home, to work on projects that I cared about, scripts that excited me, roles that challenged me. I'd already started preproduction on a film when I was invited to an event in London. An event that would change my life in ways I could never have imagined.

*

My agent Christine was a harsh-looking woman. Short hair, pointed features, gravelly voice. She smelled of cigarettes and Estée Lauder, always wore grey. She had passed me over to an agent in America, finally taking me back when I got home.

"So, did you ask them to kill you off?" she asked as we walked into the building together.

We each took a glass of champagne, standing off to the side as the large room bustled with industry people.

"I told them I took a role in a film and asked if they could write me out of the show for a little while."

"And they killed you off? Bloody savage." She pulled out her mobile phone. "I'll get on the phone to the agency in LA. They should've fought harder for you."

"No, Chris, it's fine. Honestly, it's fine. It's all filmed and edited and ready to be aired. There's nothing that can be done now. Besides, I'm excited to put my all into this new project."

"Oh yeah, this film..."

Christine had reservations about my choice to accept the new role, attempting to talk me out of it numerous times.

"Yes. _'This film'_ " I mocked. "My friend Carys wrote it. I sent you the script, did you read it?"

"I read it." She nodded in approval.

"There you go. How could I say no to a part like that?"

"Because it's a slow burning independent film that'll probably be lucky to get into a festival, let alone a cinema."

"I don't care about that. I'm excited about it. I haven't felt like this about what I do in so long."

"Mm." She gave a cynical glare from the corner of her eye as she pulled her cigarettes from her bag. "Be back in a minute."

I rolled my eyes and looked around the room, scanning desperately for someone I knew. I walked slowly through the crowds, sipping champagne as I went. I was surrounded by familiar faces; actors, presenters, directors, producers, and none of them had a clue who I was.

Suddenly, I heard someone shouting my name. I turned to see Carys hurrying towards me and almost melted with relief. Carys had been a friend since University. Even back then, we always talked about how one day she'd write a film and I'd star in it. We'd joke about how we'd both win Oscars for it, me - best actress, and her - best original screenplay. We'd stand on the couch in our student flat holding bottles of deodorant and pretend to give our acceptance speeches. Now the film was coming true. The Oscars, however, were still a distant dream.

"So glad you could come!" she said. "I wanted to introduce you to some people."

Carys had been working as a writer in the industry since we graduated. She dragged me around the room, introducing me to people as her 'leading lady', networking and socialising as if the future of our film depended on it. I smiled politely, answered the barrage of questions about my career, my training, if I had any other projects lined up. By the time we were seated for the dinner, I was exhausted.

A man sat across the table from me sloshing a glass of wine and talking between bites of food. I didn't recognise him, but from the way he was talking, it was clear he was a director.

"It's just rarely done well," he said. "It's as if nowadays, people can't be bothered making up their own stories so they just pick up a book and go 'I'll turn this into a film instead!'"

I cleared my throat. "I think it's an art form."

"A lazy art form."

"Not necessarily. Creating nuance, working with semantics, expanding the source material, it's-"

"Oh an expert, are you?"

"Well I have a degree in English Literature and Film Studies. My focus was on literary adaptation so I like to think I know what I'm talking about."

A man with short, dark hair tried to hide a smirk from across the table as he watched the other man become quiet. I bit the inside of my cheek and took a sip of champagne, trying to force down feeling of awkwardness that was creeping into my stomach.

"So you studied adaptations, then?" The dark-haired man said. He had sharp features and a Scottish accent. I recognised him immediately.

"I-I did, yes."

"Did you ever do Sherlock Holmes?"

I laughed. "Actually, Sherlock Holmes is my favourite. I wrote _a lot_ of essays about it."

He looked at me funny. It was something between a squint and a smile; like he was assessing me.

"I'm Steve... Steve Moffat," He reached out his hand.

"I know," I replied as I shook it. "I'm Adrian Bury."

*

I had only been back in London for a few months, yet somehow my life had already started to shift. I couldn't quite fathom how a chance meeting at an event had lead to me sitting at a table with a script in my hands, reading alongside a room full of unbelievably talented actors. I took a generous gulp of coffee and winced as it burned the roof of my mouth, waiting for my next line.

"That was... Just an experiment. Just to, er, just to see," Benedict read as he sat beside me.

"Of course. Just an experiment," I finished, taking a deep breath as I finished my final line.

Everyone turned the pages of their scripts in perfect unison and Steven began to read. "A long pause. Their faces remain close, the tension palpable. Sherlock leans in again but this time it escalates. Hands in hair, heavy breathing, smashing objects. Music accompanies. Cut to black. End of episode."

The room murmured with a collective 'ooh'. I laughed and rested my chin on my fist, sneaking a glance at the man I was going to be acting alongside. His dark hair was shaggy and unkempt, his jumper old and well-worn. But there was something charming about him, especially as he read his lines with an effortless confidence.

He looked down at me and leaned in, speaking only to me. "This is going to be interesting." He was trying to put me at ease, I could tell.

"I hope you're a good kisser," I joked.

I watched as his eyes creased with a smile and he began to laugh.

*

Everyone invited me for a drink after the table read. They'd done it after the first two read-throughs and decided to make it tradition. We bundled into a corner of the pub, got our drinks and raised our glasses to the show.

I watched as people talked and laughed. Happy to sit quietly and take it all in. They had all gotten to know each other while filming the first two episodes - it was like a family that I was being welcomed into.

"So Adrian what were you doing before this?" asked Louise.

"I had a recurring role on a show in the states," I replied. "Only been back a few months."

"Oh right I remember you saying. What made you leave?"

I puffed my cheeks and blew the air out through my lips. "Lots of things really. I started a film that's shooting over here. Also I was dating my costar and we broke up about a week before I wrapped my final scene. It just felt like the right time."

"Oh god I'm sorry."

"It's okay! We're still really good friends."

Benedict pulled up a chair beside me and sat down with his drink.

"Are you happy to be home?" he asked.

I nodded. "Absolutely. I loved LA but it's just not the same."

The evening rolled by with effortless conversation. Every time I tried to buy a drink, someone would shake their head and insist they bought it for me.

"Gone on then, what can I get you?" asked Martin as he stood up.

"I'll have an old fashioned if they do them," I replied.

Benedict looked at me. "That's one of my favourites."

Martin rolled his eyes. "One for you too then?"

"Go on then."

We watched as he pushed his way through to the bar before turning back to each other and smiling.

"By the way," I said. "I'm a fan of your work." 

"Really?" He seemed genuinely surprised. 

"Yeah. When I first met you at the chemistry read, I thought I recognised you. It took me a while to realise where I knew you from."

"Oh. Where?" 

"Starter for 10." I laughed. "It's one of my favourite films." 

He bowed his head and chuckled. "I thought you were going to say one of my theatre performances..." 

"Sorry," I shrugged with a smile. "Been in the states since 2006." 

"Ah that's fair enough." 

"Do you still do theatre?" 

"Mhm," he nodded as he finished the last of his drink. "I'm starting rehearsals for a stage adaptation of Frankenstein." 

I gasped. "Oh! Is that the one Danny Boyle's doing?" 

"It is." 

"Oh wow. I'd love to come and see it." 

"I'll make sure to put some tickets aside for you." 

Martin approached the table with our drinks. We clinked our glasses and took a sip together. 

"That's a pretty shit old fashioned," I said. 

"There isn't even any orange in it," Ben agreed as he looked into the glass. 

Martin sat down and put his middle finger up at us. "You'll get what you're given!" he shouted. 

We kept talking, just the two of us, as if no one else was there. I was starting to understand what Steve and Mark had said when they gave me the part. 'The chemistry's perfect. It's going to be electric,' they'd said. I could definitely feel the electricity. 

But suddenly, I felt the electricity fade. Like a fuse short-circuiting and going out with a puff of smoke. Ben turned to the door of the pub and began to smile as a woman approached us. He shifted aside and pulled up a chair to let her sit down as everyone began to wave and say hello. 

"Ade, this is my girlfriend Olivia," he said. 

"Hi," she smiled as she sat down. 

Oh. I didn't say it out loud. But 'Oh' was definitely how I felt. It was moments like this where I was thankful I wasn't just an actor, but a good actor. I smiled kindly, kept my joints loose, my face calm. 

"So lovely to meet you," I said. 

"Adrian's playing Margaux Cave." 

"Oh, how nice." She didn't sound like she meant it. 

"Yeah," I said. "Anyway, I better get going now. I'm up early for filming. See you all on set." 

The goodbye's sounded like murmurs as I grabbed my jacket off the back of my chair and left. Why did I do that? I didn't know. I hailed a taxi and rode home in silence. The taste of old fashioned still burning my tongue. 

*

It was 10pm, and the set of 221B Baker Street was freezing cold. It was my fifth day of filming and we'd finally gotten to the scene I'd been scared of.

"Okay we're going to close set now," Steven shouted. "I need camera and boom to stay. Besides that, anyone who isn't myself, Ben or Adrian needs to clear out, thank you!"

I watched as the crew wandered off set. My heart was thumping as I looked over at the dining table, at the lights and cameras being set up around it. I was wearing a backless evening gown, shivering as I waited on the cold, draughty set, when suddenly a pair of hands appeared behind me and began rubbing my arms to keep me warm.

I looked over my shoulder to see Ben standing behind me in his tuxedo.

"Reckon we can do it in one take?" I asked.

"Yeah," he wrinkled his nose. "We'll smash it."

We had made the decision not to practice the kiss beforehand. A decision I was now second-guessing as we got in our positions. My throat was starting to hurt from take after take of the argument between Sherlock and Margaux, my feet hurting in the high heels as we walked back and forth from our marks. 

I was perched on the edge of the table with Ben sitting behind me in a dining chair as we waited for them to reset. Finally, everything was ready. 

"Right, we want to get this all in one swift take. Let's go from 'do you know what I think', camera's going to follow Sherlock and we'll go right into the kiss," said Steve as he sat behind the camera.

I nodded. 

"Okay, rolling, and action."

I twisted my body, resting my weight on my hands as I looked deep into his eyes. "Do you know what I think?" 

"Of course, I know what everyone thinks." 

"I think you've gone your entire life feeling nothing. I think feeling nothing has made you the brilliant mind that you are today. I think you felt nothing for so long that you assumed it was because you _couldn't_ feel. But you can. You just don't want to. And I think you _hate_ the fact that _I_ make you feel something."

"I think you're lonely." He stood up and put his hands on the table, bringing his face close to mine as he spoke. "Judging by the stick-and-poke tattoo on the inside of your upper arm and the subconscious distain in your face whenever family is mentioned, I'd say you were emancipated from your parents at sixteen, no, fifteen wasn't it? So you've worked and fought for everything you have, so much so that nothing you want is ever the easy option."

"Who says I want you?"

"You do. Right now. It's written all over your face, it's in your body language..."

"How is it you can sense that in me, but not in yourself?"

"Because I don't–"

"Shut up."

"Love, attraction, romance... it's all futile. It's messy, it just clouds your thinking,” he continued.

"How would you know?"

"I know everything."

"No you don't."

This was it. I turned away from him, feeling my breath shaking as it left me. I was in awe of his timing. Ever since our first scene together, I was blown away by how easily he was able to build tension by doing nothing but staying quiet. I could hear his footsteps as he circled the table, the camera following smoothly until we were face to face. 

His hand was cold as it touched my cheek and I let out a soft gasp, gripping the edge of the table with my hands. He leaned in, agonisingly slow, until eventually his lips were on mine. I imagined what it would be like to be Margaux. How careful she would be, how she'd be worried about pushing him away. 

He broke the kiss and rested his forehead against mine. "That was just, it's just an experiment. Just to... Just to see..."

"Of course," I whispered. "Just an experiment." 

He waited a few seconds before kissing me again. This time, I curled my fingers into his hair, feeling his body press against mine. We kissed for what felt like forever, knocking things over and moving with a hunger that almost made me forget we were acting at all. I felt his hands grip my thighs and lift me from the table. 

This wasn't in the script. 

I wrapped my arms around his neck and kept kissing him as he carried me through the archway. 

"Okay, we'll cut there," said Steve. 

We stopped kissing. Ben put me down gently and I rested my palms on his chest. 

"That was good!" I said enthusiastically as I wiped my smudged lipstick with my thumb. 

"Sorry I lifted you, it just felt right in the moment." 

"No, it was great. It really worked. Whether he agrees, I'm sure we'll find out now."

He laughed as we walked back onto the set.

We stood behind the monitor and watched the scene back, none of us knowing how infamous that one kiss was going to become. How it would become 'the kiss' that followed us in every interview, every article, every live Q&A. 

I grabbed Ben's arm and squeezed it as we watched the kiss on the monitor. Neither of us with any idea of what was to come; how a TV show was going to change our lives forever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After receiving lots of requests to turn this oneshot into its own fic, I’ve done exactly that. ‘The Making Of’ is currently in progress and available to read on my page!


	5. Father of the Bride

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Requested on Wattpad: 'Flora (or Vaughan) getting married, I'd love to see Sherlock's reaction to that tbh'

Sherlock stood alone in the study with a small cluster of flowers in his hand. He glanced out the window as the sun melted into the room like butter, took a breath and sighed it out. He turned around, catching a glimpse of himself in the reflection of the glass door - his dark hair was greying at his temples, the lines in his face deeper than he remembered.

He turned to his wife as she stepped into the room.

"You okay?" she asked.

"I'm old," he groaned.

Margaux laughed softly as she approached him, placing a hand on his face. "We're both old."

He shook his head. Her beauty had transcended age; it was only when she smiled that the fine lines around her eyes would show. He looked down at her dress.

"You look nice," he said.

"So do you." She took the flowers from his hand and undid the pin. "Here, let me..."

He waited quietly as she attached it to his suit jacket.

She patted her hand on his chest and smiled. "There you go."

He leant down and kissed her, before a tap on the door caught their attention.

Flora stood in the doorway with a nervous a smile. She brushed her hands over her hips and shrugged.

"What do you think?" she asked.

She was the perfect mix of her mother and father; full lips, bright blue eyes and dark, wavy hair cut just below her ears. She had a soft voice, yet her tongue was sharp, allowing her to outwit anyone who tried to challenge her. She stood in front of her parents wearing her mother's wedding dress, her short hair decorated with delicate flowers.

Margaux covered her mouth and gave a nod. "You look beautiful."

Flora smiled before looking up at her father. "Dad?"

Sherlock cleared his throat and gave a gentle nod.

"The cars'll be here in a minute," said Margaux as she walked up to her daughter and kissed her on the cheek. "I'll give you both a minute."

The glass doors closed behind them, enclosing them in the warm, bright study. Flora laughed softly, placing her hands behind her back - another trait she had inherited from him.

"How are you feeling?" she asked. "I know you're not the biggest fan of weddings..."

"That's not true." He pondered for a moment. "I didn't mind my own." He smiled as he watched her laugh. "You look like your mother."

She took a deep breath, glancing down at herself in the pearly white lace. "If only."

"You do. You look beautiful."

They stood quietly for a moment before Flora moved closer and wrapped her arms around him, resting her head on his chest as if she were a little girl again.

"Thank you," she whispered.

"What for?"

"For being so supportive of me. I've seen how hard it's been for Shannon, having parents that don't approve. I don't think I've ever told you how grateful I am, that I never once had to worry about you and mum disowning me."

He closed his eyes for a moment, holding her a little tighter as he began to speak. "I never wanted to love someone. In fact, I went a very long time actively avoiding it. But when I met your mother, I realised love was not something I could choose to do or not do. No one can. That's why we call it _falling_ in love, not _jumping_."

She giggled against his chest.

"Flora, my concern has always been to protect you; to make sure the person you're with will care for you and respect you."

She pulled back and looked up at him, assessing his face. "And what's your deduction on this one?"

"I think you're in good hands."

She smiled. "I think so too."

*

The large stately home was surrounded by grounds of luscious green grass, hidden lakes and flower beds. The stone walls were strewn with ivy and sunlight shimmered through the old windows. Sherlock reached out his arm and looked down at Flora as they waited at the doors. They could hear a violin on the other side, the muffled chattering of guests as they waited.

"Are you alright?" he asked, noticing the tension in her face and the quickening of her breath.

"Mhm, I'm fine," she replied quickly.

"Are you sure?"

"This is terrifying."

The melody of the violin changed. Flora let out a huff.

"I told Vee not to play this song," she said. "Even on my bloody wedding day he's still trying to wind me up."

"That's what brothers are for. Ask uncle Mycroft."

The doors slowly began to open. Flora grabbed her father's arm, holding her small bouquet in the other hand as they began to walk.

The room was filled with familiar faces; some teary, some beaming with joy. She smiled at everyone as they walked, taking a moment to look up at Sherlock and rest her head on his shoulder.

Sherlock glanced in the direction of Vaughan who stood near the front playing his violin. He narrowed his eyes at him, and within seconds, he rolled his eyes and changed the song. Flora tightened her grip on his arm in a silent thank you as they continued their walk down the aisle.

They stopped when they reached the front. Sherlock felt his daughter's hand slip away from his arm, followed by her lips pressing lightly against his cheek. He stood there for a moment longer, frozen in time, as he took a mental photograph and stowed it away in his mind palace.

He made his way to his seat as the officiant instructed everyone to sit. Margaux took his hand as they watched Flora turn to face her bride for the first time, the pair of them sharing a laugh and an awkward 'hi' as the ceremony began.

Shannon had round brown eyes, deep olive skin and long hair pulled back into a low bun. She was holding a matching bouquet, her other hand nervously clutching at Flora's as they listened to the officiant talk.

"Was she okay?" Margaux whispered.

"She was scared. But I think she's alright now."

"And how are _you_ coping?"

"Barely," Mycroft interjected from behind them.

"Shush." She batted him away and returned to watching the ceremony.

"We've now come to the part where I have to ask if anyone objects," said the officiant.

Vaughan cleared his throat as if he were about to speak.

"Don't you dare," Margaux hissed.

He chuckled to himself and leaned back in his chair.

"The amount of money we spent on this wedding, if anyone tries to stop it I'll personally remove them," Sherlock whispered.

*

Camera's flashed and confetti rained from the sky as the newlyweds walked down the steps hand-in-hand. The grounds were bubbling with guests as they cheered and stood around for photographs. Even the clouds parted, as if congratulating them with a clear blue sky.

The photographer knelt down in the grass, peering through his lens as Vaughan and Rosie stood together and smiled.

"Nice dress," Vaughan teased as they posed for the camera.

"Shut up, there's nothing wrong with it."

Rosie was a bridesmaid. She was wearing a long, pale pink dress, her blonde hair falling down her back in soft curls.

"I know, that's why I said it was nice?" he replied.

"Oh right. I just never know when you're being serious..."

The photographer popped his head up. "Can you turn this way just a touch, guys?"

The pair followed his directions before painting smiles back on their faces.

Vaughan spoke quietly again. "But really, that dress makes you look like a sheet of candy floss-"

Rosie elbowed him hard in the side and continued to smile.

Sherlock and John stood together near the steps. John's hair was a bright silvery white and the lines around his mouth were deep, especially when he smiled.

He patted Sherlock on the back and turned to him. "God, feels like she was only a baby five minutes ago."

Sherlock looked down at him and furrowed his brow.

"Not _literally_ you numpty. It's a figure of speech."

Shannon approached the men tentatively. She was wearing a beaded lace bodice and a pair of white, silk trousers. Sherlock noticed her hair, how it had been decorated with the same flowers as Flora's.

"Am I interrupting?" she asked.

"Not at all," replied John. He extended his hand. "Congratulations, by the way. Don't think I've said it to you yet."

"Thank you," she smiled as she shook it firmly.

"How are you feeling? With your parents not..."

She shook her head and forced a smile. "I'm alright. I wish they were here but if they can't be happy for me then..." she trailed off with a shrug.

"They've missed out on a lovely day," said Sherlock.

John and Shannon looked at him with wide eyes. Both equally as shocked to hear something so nice come from his mouth.

"Thank you, Mr Holmes."

John leaned towards him. "This is the part where you tell her to call you 'dad'."

"No thank you," he replied bluntly.

Shannon laughed. It was something he liked about her, how she never took offence, never acted awkward or scared to be in his presence. She knew exactly when to end a conversation, when she was getting too close to his boundaries, never fought for him to accept her. He appreciated it.

*

Glasses clinked and the room fell into silence. Margaux rested her elbow on the table, covering her eyes with her hand.

"Oh god, here we go," she muttered.

Rosie giggled as she sat beside her.

Sherlock rose to his feet, looking around at the room packed with guests. Every set of eyes was glued to him, waiting for him to speak.

"I, er, I was banking on my children never getting married so I wouldn't ever have to give a speech."

There was a rumble of laughter. He shifted awkwardly on his feet as he looked out across the tables, sharing glances with familiar faces; John, Molly, his parents, Mycroft.

"Flora is... _was_ my little girl. Anyone who had the pleasure of knowing her when she was younger, knows what an incredible person she is." He looked down at her. "She has always taken after her mother - she's beautiful, kind, intelligent. She's quick and witty, with all of the charm you would never expect a child of _mine_ to possess. When I held her for the first time, I'd never felt love like it - sorry Vaughan."

There was another laugh. Vaughan raised his glass with a smirk.

"But, being half of me, of course she drove people insane. She could back someone into a corner with questions, have them contradicting themselves within minutes. Flora never followed the rules; _always_ chose her own path." He paused. "It's hard for a parent to sit back and watch their child make their own decisions, especially when those decisions are not the ones we'd make for them. Flora is the daughter of a forensic psychologist and a detective-"

"If you can call yourself that," Greg Lestrade heckled from his table.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and carried on. "She showed the potential to follow in our footsteps. But instead, she followed her creativity. When she told us she was doing an art degree, I'm ashamed to say there were many arguments. I tried to convince her to change her mind, told her she was wasting a natural gift. But she wouldn't budge. She said she couldn't explain it, but something was _telling_ her this was her path. On that path she met Shannon."

Flora looked at Shannon and smiled.

"I am a logical man. I believe in science and evidence and facts. But if you were to ask me whether I believe fate brought these two women together, I would have no choice but to say yes." He raised his glass. "My daughter's happiness is everything to me. Today, I stand here _confident_ that she will be happy forever. So... If you could all raise your glass and join me in toasting to Flora."

Everyone cheered, clinking their glasses and sipping their champagne. Flora stood up and pulled Sherlock into a hug.

"I love you, dad."

"I love you too, Flora _Sherlock._ "

She rolled her eyes.

He smirked as he sat down before turning to Margaux who was wiping a tear from the corner of her eye.

"Every speech, you just get better and better," she said.

"I can't tell if you're being sarcastic."

"Of course I'm not!" She took his hand in hers, running her thumb over his wedding ring.

*

Vaughan and Mycroft sat in the corner of the room as disco lights flashed and music boomed through the speakers. By the time he was sixteen, Vaughan had grown taller than both his father and uncle. Yet still, even as a grown man, Mycroft would call him 'little one'.

"I distinctly remember the pair of us spending our time like this at your parents' wedding too," said Mycroft.

Vaughan laughed, brushing his wavy hair away from his face. "I remember that too. I asked if you were ever going to get married."

"Indeed you did, little one. And do you remember what else?"

"No?"

"You said that _you_ were _never_ going to get married..."

He folded his arms across his chest and chuckled. "Looks like we both kept to our word."

"You still have time."

"Nah. Not for me all that _love_ stuff."

"You sound like your father when he was your age. Pretty certain _you_ came along just a few years later."

They looked out across the sea of people on the dance floor - holding hands, laughing, swaying together. Rosie danced past them with her father, catching a glimpse of Vaughan out the corner of her eye. She turned her back and discreetly put her middle finger up at him. Mycroft watched as Vaughan tried to hide a laugh.

"What about little Watson?"

"Rosie? Uncle Mycroft, I've known her since she was born."

"Knowing someone since childhood does not negate the possibility of romance..."

"How many brandy's have you had?"

Sherlock and Margaux sat at a table near the dance floor. Margaux sipped her drink as she watched Vaughan and Mycroft across the room.

"I wonder what they're talking about," she said. "He doesn't talk to us like he talks to him."

"Which one are you referring to?"

She paused for a moment. "Both of them actually."

A cloud of white silk and lace floated past them. They watched with smiles as Flora and Shannon danced together to the upbeat song. Margaux turned to Sherlock, noticing his smile fade.

"What's the matter?" she said.

"We should have had more."

"Kids?"

He nodded.

She reached out and took his hand. "Sherlock, we just about managed with the two we had."

He ran his thumb across her fingers. She shifted her seat closer and rested her head on his shoulder.

"You're just feeling sad because they're all grown up."

"Of course I am. Who am I going to drag around on cases now?"

"John?"

He watched as John danced with Rosie, waving his arms in an embarrassing dad-dance.

"Mm."

Flora sat down breathlessly next to her parents, taking a large gulp of champagne.

"So are you going to dance with me at any point tonight?" she asked as she nudged her father's arm.

Margaux stayed at the table as Flora led Sherlock onto the dance floor. She took a deep, calm breath as she watched them dance together.


	6. Bullet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Requested on Wattpad: 'If you would like to write an emotional as well as fluffy one-shot, one could be Sherlock dreaming of Margaux not surviving the bullet she revived in the first book, and perhaps him waking up startled just to find her next to him. I’m a sucker for fluff as well as traumatic plots. :)'

He was sprinting. Pushing past the burning in his lungs and throbbing in his ears as he ran, so fast that he could feel the long grass whipping his legs. Behind him, he could hear John following, the light from his torch bobbing erratically as he tried to catch up.

But Sherlock got there first.

"Margaux..." He dropped to his knees beside her, placing a hand on her cold, marble-like face.

He winced at the sight of blood on her chest and neck as she lay on her back, the grass glistening dark red beneath her. The hairs on his arms pricked as he touched her. Her body was freezing as a frost began to form across her skin.

John knelt down, panting as he tried to catch his breath. His eyes widened at the sight below him.

"Oh god," he whispered. "Jesus!" He placed his hand against her bloodied neck in a futile attempt to find the wound.

Greg approached them, throwing his hands on top of his head and turning away from the scene. "Shit."

"Sherlock..." John looked up at him. "I'm so sorry..."

Time slowed down. Sherlock collapsed backwards into the wet grass. He was silent as he brought his knees to his chest and covered his mouth. A tear trickled down his face, followed by an agonising gasp, as if he were drowning and couldn't catch his breath.

*

Molly sat at her desk in the morgue resting her face in her hands. She had been crying; the phone conversation with Sherlock still reeling in her mind.

_Why are you doing this to me? Why are you making fun of me?_

_Please, I swear, you just have to listen to me.... Molly, this is for a case. It's... it's a sort of experiment._

_I'm not an experiment, Sherlock._

She had come to work to keep her mind busy. But it wasn't working. Every time she felt like she had calmed down, she would remember his voice and start crying again.

The door opened. She turned to see two men in black suits and earpieces walk into the room.

"Molly Hooper?"

"Yes?"

"We're here on business for Mycroft Holmes, your assistance is required."

"Oh... What... what is it?"

"A private autopsy has been requested under approval of MI6."

She felt a lump in her throat, an anxious cramp in her stomach. She took a deep breath, standing up clumsily.

"An autopsy? Wh-"

They wheeled in a gurney with a black, zipped-up body bag. Molly felt her cheeks go hot as they positioned it beside the slab. She stepped forward slowly, her gloved hands shaking as they reached for the zip.

Don't be Sherlock, she thought to herself. Please, don't be Sherlock, don't be Sherlock.

She undid it slowly, her breath quivering, tears spilling as she looked down at the face hidden beneath the plastic.

...

John stood on the doorstep of 221B Baker Street. It was still cordoned off, unsafe to enter. But he didn't care. He glanced around before lifting the tape and letting himself inside.

He walked up the stairs and into the living room, climbing over the rubble and sitting himself in the only thing that had survived the blast - Sherlock's armchair. The smell of smoke was strong and everything was dark, the only light coming from the cracks in the wooden panel that had been nailed to the smashed window.

He looked down at the mess on the floor, noticing a heap of melted plastic that was once a child's toy. He thought about Vaughan and a sob escaped his lips. He covered his mouth as he thought of the little boy, too young to understand why his mother wasn't coming back. Then he thought of Mary, and his cries grew louder.

"Hello?" a voice echoed from the staircase.

He composed himself quickly, looking up to see Molly Hooper rushing into the room.

"Molly," he cleared his throat and wiped his eyes quickly. "You shouldn't be here, it's not safe."

"Where is he?" she asked.

"He's... he's not here. Molly, look, I'm so sorry for what happened between the two of you on the phone. He wouldn't ever-"

"I don't care about that. Where is he? Is he okay?"

He paused for a moment. "You've heard..."

" _Heard_? Mycroft Holmes tried to have me do the autopsy."

"What? Oh god, Molly I... Sherlock won't have known that, I swear to you. He would _never_."

"Where's Vaughan? Is he safe?"

"He's at Margaux's with Mrs Hudson. Sherlock went straight there after-"

"After what?" She began to cry. "John, what happened?"

*

Sherlock pushed open the door and stepped into Margaux's flat.

Mrs Hudson appeared in the hall with a look of concern on her face. "Sherlock? Oh dear, what happened? Are you alright?"

He stared ahead, as if looking straight past her. His eyes were red and watery, his jaw clenched.

"Sherlock... Is something the matter?"

He swallowed and dropped his gaze to the floor. "She's dead," he said quietly.

"What?" she replied with a gasp.

"Margaux. She..."

She covered her mouth with her hands. "No, she can't be! You must be joking-"

"Joking?" He raised his hands, showing her the blood dried in the creases of his knuckles.

"Oh dear god, no. She's really... she's gone?"

He nodded, trying with every ounce of strength to remain composed. She stepped towards him and opened her arms as she began to cry. Sherlock stood still, reluctantly allowing her to hug him.

"How could this happen?" she whispered between cries. "This isn't fair. She didn't deserve this."

He could feel his throat getting tight and his eyes welling up. He pushed her away gently and took a deep breath.

"I need to see my son, please," he said.

"Oh Sherlock I'm sorry, he's sleeping."

He looked at the clock on the wall, realising it was still early hours of the morning. Time had escaped him, so much that he hadn't even noticed the dark sky on his way there.

He nodded. "Okay. Well I'm going to..." he gestured down the hall to Margaux's bedroom.

"Yes, yes go on."

He began walking down the hall, trying to block out the sounds of Mrs Hudson crying behind him.

The room was dark. Completely still besides the cool air brushing through the slightly open window. He walked up to it and closed it, before opening it again, remembering how Margaux always liked a breeze in the room. He walked into the bathroom and looked down at his clothes, seeing the bloodstains and ground-in dirt properly for the first time. He took them off and threw them into a heap before climbing into the shower.

The water was too hot, but he didn't care enough to turn it down. Instead he stood there, watching the blood run off his skin and disappear down the plug hole. He squeezed some shower gel into his hand and rubbed it onto his body. It smelled like her. He closed his eyes and let the scent envelop him, as if she were there, resting her head on his chest. But when he opened his eyes, he was still alone; the water running clear, the last parts of her washed away.

The bedroom was cold against his wet skin. He sighed and closed the window before sitting on the edge of the bed, his lower half wrapped in a towel as he thought about what he could wear to sleep. Margaux was smaller than him; shorter, slimmer. But the thought of putting his dirty clothes back on made him shudder. He rummaged through her dresser, searching every drawer until he reached the bottom. At the back, folded neatly, was a shirt. His shirt. He held it in his hands and closed his eyes, replaying the moment she had stepped into the living room of Baker street wearing it.

_That's my shirt._

_I know, thanks for letting me borrow it._

_I didn't let you-_

He laughed gently at the memory, before burying his face in the fabric and beginning to cry.

*

They decided to hold a funeral. A quiet, intimate funeral in which the only people that knew the truth had to pretend that they didn't. A car accident. The thought made Sherlock sick. She had died because of him, yet he had to stand back and watch her friends and colleagues grieve over a lie.

John walked into the flat. He stood in the doorway and looked down at Sherlock sitting on the burned floor as workmen cleared up the damage around him.

"What've you got there?" he asked.

"Photographs," Sherlock replied, keeping his focus on box beside him. "Mrs Hudson had them developed." He let out a growl, throwing a photo aside before moving on to the next pile.

John sat down beside him, noticing a heap of discarded pictures. "What's wrong with these?" he asked as he picked them up and sifted through them.

They were all of Sherlock and Margaux.

"Not a single picture, John. I have not come across a single picture where I look even remotely happy to be in her company."

John furrowed his brow and looked through them again, now noticing the bored, disinterested, almost annoyed expression on Sherlock's face in every single one as Margaux smiled beside him.

"Well... Smiling for photos isn't really your thing, is it," John cleared his throat. "Margaux knew that."

"But I loved her, and I have no proof of it. I wasted so much time."

He stood up and walked away, leaving John sitting alone amongst the photographs.

"There has to be at least one," John muttered to himself.

He went through pile after pile, diligently scouring every image to find something, anything. But as he kept searching, he began to lose hope. Until he came across a photo from his wedding. He picked it up and ran his thumb softly over Mary's face as she smiled at the camera. He was about to put it down when something caught his eye; it was Margaux, dancing and laughing in the background. On the other side of the shot, Sherlock was sitting alone at a table. He was gazing at her with a soft, genuine smile.

John held the photo up. "I knew it," he said, before setting it aside and looking up at the workmen scattered around the flat. "Guys, would you mind taking a break and coming back a bit later?"

...

Sherlock returned to the flat in the early evening. He walked in with Vaughan on his hip and a bag on his shoulder, raising an eyebrow when he saw John standing at the table waiting for him.

"Come here a minute," said John.

He dumped the bag on the floor and placed Vaughan on the couch, looking around at the mess left behind by the workmen.

"What happened? I thought they were working until-"

"Just come here."

He approached him slowly, looking down at the table covered completely in photographs.

"Look at them," John continued. "Really look at them."

He picked one up, examining it closely. It was of Mrs Hudson and Mary in the flat at Christmas - smiling, heads together, holding glasses of wine. In the back of the shot, Sherlock was sitting in his armchair while Margaux perched on the arm. She was covering her face as he grinned up at her, pleased with himself for making her laugh.

He put it down and looked at another. It was slightly out-of-focus, taken accidentally at Vaughan's birthday party. Margaux sat on the floor helping the little boy open his gifts, and in the background, Sherlock stood alone, admiring her.

"You loved her when you thought no one was watching," said John. "When it was just between you and her. These are real feelings captured from the corner of an eye. Posed photos are great. But these are the moments worth remembering."

Sherlock walked slowly around the table, taking a moment to look at each one. He placed his hand over a picture of Margaux's face. "Thank you," he said softly.

*

He was back on the grounds of Musgrave Hall. The sky was black and a fine mist fell around him. He looked up to see her standing in the grass, his heart beginning to pound.

"Margaux," he whispered before taking off in a sprint.

He was running towards her but she wasn't getting any closer. As if the ground was stretching beneath his feet. She stood there, watching him as he ran, when a figure approached her from behind. It was Eurus. Dressed in white, her long hair blowing in the wind and a gun in her hand.

"No! Eurus, don't!" he screamed as he pushed harder, reaching out in a futile attempt to stop her. "Margaux, she's behind you, run!"

But she didn't move. Instead she stood there, staring at him with wide, terrified eyes.

"I can't get to you! I can't..."

Eurus raised the gun and pointed it at Margaux.

"No!"

There was a loud bang. He tripped and fell into the wet earth, crying out to her, begging her to get up.

*

He awoke with a gasp and immediately reached beside him. The bed was empty. He sat up, panting heavily, his t-shirt clinging to his body with sweat. He didn't realise he was crying until the bedroom door opened.

Margaux rushed into the room. "Sherlock?" She climbed onto the bed and crawled up to him, "Hey, it's okay, breathe. Breathe."

He took her face in his hand and pulled her closer, resting his forehead against hers.

She placed her palm on his chest, feeling his heart thudding quickly. "What was it? Did you dream about the waterfall again?"

He shook his head. "Y-you were gone... Then I woke up and you weren't..." He sighed, looking at her bandaged shoulder.

She recognised the guilt in his face, the fear in his still-shaking breath. "I'm sorry. I couldn't sleep so I went to check on Vaughan," she said as she ran her fingers through his hair. "I'm here, okay? I'm here and I'm fine."

She watched quietly as he sat forward, rubbing his eyes and letting out a sigh. Sherlock turned to her as she knelt on the bed, the concern on her face still visible through the darkness. He leaned towards her and pulled her into a kiss. His touch was gentle, as if she were a bird with a broken wing.

"I love you," he said.

"I love you too."

"I'm going to make a promise to myself, that for the rest of our lives I will say that to you at least once every day."

She laughed quietly. "You don't have to force yourself to say it."

"I'm not forcing myself. I'm _reminding_ myself. I almost lost you, and if you hadn't made it, I never would have been able to tell you I loved you again."

They lay down together, positioning themselves so Margaux's shoulder didn't hurt. She rested her head on his chest and looked up at him, stroking his cheek and smiling. He kissed her on the side of the head and closed his eyes, thankful he never had to imagine a world without her.


	7. Common Room

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Requested on AO3: 'I love the idea of Margaux and Sherlock at uni... Maybe a science report partners situation?'

_For PatheticallySentimental_

_*_

Students packed the lecture hall, some taking notes, some dozing off behind their books. Paul, the tutor, stood at the front of the room as the glow from the overhead projector reflected off his glasses. it was a cool November afternoon, and even in the windowless hall, there was a chill in the air.

"Right so let's talk about this assignment," said Paul.

There was a collective groan.

He bowed his head and glared over his glasses at his students. "If you're not already working on it, then I implore you to get your arses in gear and start. Deadline is next month."

There was another groan, followed by quiet mutterings.

"Come on, guys. I know presentations aren't nice, but it's a pairs assignment which _does_ make it easier. Show of hands, has everyone chosen their partners?"

There was a scattering of raised arms.

"Okay, anyone who doesn't have their hands raised, you need to have it sorted before the end of this session. So, look around, choose your partner and make sure you let me know so I can schedule your assessment dates."

The students began to shuffle around, talking quietly amongst themselves. Paul stepped out of the glare of the projector and looked across the rows of seats.

"Mr Holmes," he said, gesturing to the boy at the back. "That means you too."

"I don't do partners," he replied.

"It's the assignment."

"The assignment has been designed to test one's ability to delegate workload and collaborate in research. I do not possess, nor desire either of those qualities and I don't intend to enter into a vocation which requires me to do so. The presentation is worth 20 credits - I could refuse to do it and still pass this module. So you either allow me to do the assignment alone or I would like to forfeit the grade now."

Heads turned towards the young man as he sat alone at the back. Sherlock Holmes. The loner. The 'weirdo'. He was tall and svelte, with dark curly hair that fell messily into his pale blue eyes. His face was sharp and angular, his voice deep and rich with a vocabulary beyond his twenty years of life. He knew people were looking at him, but he didn't care. Instead he remained seated, leant back in his chair as he waited for his tutor to speak.

Paul rolled his eyes and let out a huff. "Fine, you can work alone." He checked his watch. "Okay, that's it, you're all free to go. If you can write down your pairs on your way out, I'll sort out your assessment dates."

Students weaved through the rows of desks, gathering in clusters at Paul's desk to write their names before spilling out the door. Paul sat down and pointed a small remote towards the back of the room, switching off the projector. He picked up the list and began reading over it when someone cleared their throat beside him. He looked up to see one of his students standing awkwardly with her bag over her shoulder.

"Miss Cave, everything okay?" he asked.

"Erm, yeah, could have a word about this presentation?"

He put down the list and turned his chair to face her. "Sure."

"I was wondering if I could work alone too?"

He pinched the bridge of his nose with his fingers, closing his eyes with an exasperated sigh. "It's a pairs assignment."

"B-but, you let that other boy work alone."

"He's a... special case."

She laughed politely, shifting her bag up her shoulder, her long dark hair getting caught in the strap. "It's just... Well, I'm not a chemistry student. I'm just taking extra modules to build up credits for my PhD application. So I don't know anyone, and they all paired up and-"

"Look, I'm sorry but if you can't find a partner then you're going to have to drop the module."

"I'll work with her," a voice echoed from the back.

They turned to see Sherlock packing his books into a bag. He threw it over his shoulder and slid a pencil behind his ear before making his way to the front.

"You'll... Really?" she replied, her voice more timid than she had meant for it to be.

"West Hall common room. 6pm," he said before walking past her and leaving through the open door.

*

Margaux Cave walked through the mahogany halls of West Hall. She was carrying two paper cups of coffee, gritting her teeth as they burned her fingers. Her long hair cascaded to the bottom of her back and her freckled nose was still pink from the cold autumn evening.

A group of boys stood in her way. She walked through them with her head down, but even without eye contact, she still felt them leering, making comments amongst themselves as if competing for her attention.

She walked into the common room and looked around for him, eventually finding him alone at a table near a large window.

"Hi," she said as she placed the cups on the table. "I don't know if you drink coffee but I brought you one anyway."

He looked up her for a moment before returning to his book. She raised her eyebrows and sat down, pushing the cup towards him.

"I almost didn't see you," she said, gesturing to the bookshelf behind them. "You're pretty well-hidden here."

"Avoids unwanted interaction," he replied in a low, monotone voice.

She nodded awkwardly as she slipped off her jacket. "So... Do you have an idea of what research topic you want to cover?"

"Molecular reaction dynamics."

"Okay."

He raised his head again, looking her in the eye for the first time. It caught her off guard; the intensity of his glare making her heart rattle in her chest.

"Okay?" he said. "You're not going to counter with a different topic?"

"Honestly, I don't care. I'm just here to get a good grade."

His eyes darted across her face. "Forensic psychology student," he said.

"Yes," she laughed. "How did you know?"

"Deductive reasoning. I observe elements of a person's appearance and behaviour to arrive at a conclusion."

"Wow. Where did you learn that?"

"I've been doing it since I was a child. It's become automatic upon meeting someone."

"Like an inbuilt scanner."

"I suppose."

She smiled. "That's so cool."

He looked away anxiously.

"I'm Margaux, by the way."

"Sherlock Holmes."

"Sherlock?"

"Yes and before you think to say anything, I've already heard every joke, wordplay and nickname-"

"Why would I make a joke? _Sher-lock,_ " she moved her mouth slowly around each letter. "I like it. It suits you."

His brows came together with a cautious curiosity. Partly because she was being so nice to him, but mostly because he was finding her company somewhat pleasant.

"So what did you observe about me that told you I study forensic psychology?" she asked.

He closed his book and clasped his hands together on top of it. "There's a book sticking out of your bag titled 'Biology and the Mind' and your jacket still has a courthouse 'visitor' sticker on it."

"Oh..."

"Not that impressive when explained, is it."

She laughed as she peeled the sticky label off her jacket.

"You're also craving a cigarette," he added.

"What? Oh come on, how could you possibly-"

He glanced down, gesturing to the sticker she had rolled into the shape of a narrow tube.

"Oh," she finished.

"When did you last have one?"

"A few days ago. Typical poor student, taking up a habit I couldn't afford."

"Would you like one?"

They stood outside in an alcove near the door. The sky was black, blanketed in stars even against the campus lights. Margaux pulled her jacket tightly around her, blowing out smoke through chattering teeth. Sherlock stood stoically as he took a long drag, exhaling calmly as if he couldn't feel the cold.

Margaux glanced up at him. "Can I ask why you chose to work alone?"

"I always work alone," he replied. "I've been told I'm _difficult._ "

She raised the cigarette to her lips. "So... Why did you offer to work with me?"

"I'm also incredibly impulsive."

"Ah," she laughed. "Difficult and impulsive - a golden combination."

"I wouldn't say it was golden."

"I was being sarcastic."

*

They met almost every evening to work on their assignment. Sherlock liked to take charge, to lead the research and direct the presentation. Margaux didn't mind. She liked to watch him, finding him fascinating, like a character from a story - He was blunt and intense and never smiled. But there was something endearing about him, something likeable about the fact that he didn't want to be liked.

"Why did you choose to take modules in chemistry?" he asked as he stared down a microscope.

They were in the university lab. It was quiet except for a small group of students working at a machine nearby.

"Biology was full." She saw what she thought was a smile from behind the lens. "Why did _you_ choose chemistry?"

"I like to know how things work, to understand them. Everything around us is chemistry, even human beings - everything they are, everything they feel is just... chemicals."

"You say 'they' like you don't include yourself in the human bracket..."

"I've always felt there was a differentiation." He moved away from the microscope, sitting upright and writing in his notebook. "Why forensic psychology?"

"I've always been fascinated by how the mind works. Crime. Murder. I want to know what makes people... go bad."

"What if they were always bad?"

She shrugged. "Then it's just 'chemicals' _,_ init _._ "

He looked up at her and let out a quiet laugh. She smiled in response, proud that she'd managed to draw even a small spark of joy from him.

"Oh, listen," she said. "I'm going out for a drink later with the people from my halls. I was wondering if you wanted to come?"

He blinked at her, the fluorescent lights of the lab turning his eyes a vibrant turquoise. "No."

"Are you sure? We're not going to the clubs, just the pub by the-"

"No."

"Okay..."

They packed up their things and left together, stepping out onto a cold, dark campus. They walked quietly down a cobbled path lined with lampposts, the sounds of drunk students in their halls pouring from open windows.

"It could be fun..." Margaux pressed.

"For who exactly?"

She looked up at him and rolled her eyes.

"I may lack tact, Margaux, but I don't lack sight. I know people don't like me, I know I get under their skin."

"Not mine."

He sighed, pushing his hands into the pockets of his raincoat. "That's because you're distracted by the work we're doing."

A group of boys were walking in their direction, some unsteady on their feet, others singing together as they swayed with beers in their hands.

"Dear god," Sherlock mumbled.

"What?"

"Is that _Sherlock Holmes_!?" one of them shouted.

He ignored them as they kept walking, closing the distance between them.

"Alright, Holmsey!"

"Sebastian..." he responded dryly.

"Who's this then?" He gestured to Margaux. "Do you need help, love? He's not holding you against your will is he?"

They all sniggered, the group parting as the pair walked through them.

"Go home, Sebastian," said Sherlock. "Eat a piece of bread."

Margaux glared at them as they passed. "Friends of yours?" she asked sarcastically.

They walked the rest of the way in silence. She knew the encounter had bothered him, but she didn't want to overstep.

They parted ways at the end of the path. She gave a feeble wave as he walked off into the dark, hands in his pockets, curls blowing in the wind.

*

December crept up quickly. Margaux sat absentmindedly tapping her pen against her notebook as the psychology tutor spoke. Her page was blank, except for a small scribble in the corner with an idea for the chemistry presentation. The tutor dismissed the class. She stuffed her things in her bag and hurried out quickly.

She waited in the common room. Watching as students came and went in waves. He wasn't there. She checked her watch and then her notebook.

_Friday - common room, 6.30_

It was Friday, she was in the common room and it was now 7.15pm. She had only known Sherlock for a month, but it was long enough to know he was almost never late.

She made her way across campus until she got to his halls. She slid past a group of students as they walked through the heavy door and made her way upstairs, scouring every door until she found his name.

She knocked. Nothing. She knocked again, harder.

"Sherlock? It's Margaux, are you in there?" She waited for a moment. "We were supposed to meet to work on the chemistry presentation..."

She pressed her ear to the door, hearing a shuffling on the other side. She knocked again.

"Sherlock, open the door or I'm calling a rep."

Within moments, the door swung open. She stifled a gasp as she looked at him; standing there, shirt half-buttoned, skin sallow, eyes bloodshot.

"Are you... are you okay?" she asked as she stepped into his room.

"Me? I'm fine. Why wouldn't I be fine? Do you want some tea? I don't have a kettle but-"

"Sherlock..."

He stopped, turning around and shrugging at her. "What?"

"We were supposed to meet. Our presentation's next week."

"Gah! Sorry. I, erm, I wasn't feeling well. Forgot to tell you. Give me one second and we'll go."

She watched as he rubbed his mouth with his hand, the other hand on his hip.

She took a step towards him. "Are you sure you're alright?"

"I... I, er, I seem to have misplaced my shoes..."

She looked down at his bare feet then at the pair of shoes in the corner of the room.

"Sherlock, why don't we skip it tonight? It's pretty much done anyway. I think you need to rest."

"I'm fine, I'm..."

She placed a hand on his arm and he went quiet, looking down at it, as if the touch of another person was alien to him. She led him slowly to his bed.

He was mumbling now, incoherent sentences that faded in and out. She sat on the edge of the bed and encouraged him to lie down, stroking the hair out of his face and resting the back of her hand on his forehead. He wasn't hot but he was sweating.

He eventually dozed off. She tried to stand up but felt a tugging at her waist, looking down to see a fistful of her jumper in his hand. She prised his fingers apart gently, trying not to wake him, and released herself from his grasp. But as she looked down at his arm, she noticed something.

Margaux knelt down quietly beside the bed and rolled his sleeve up gently, letting out a sigh when she noticed the puncture marks in his forearm.

"I wish you'd talk to me," she whispered.

She rolled him onto his side and left a glass of water on the nightstand before creeping out of his room, as if she had never been there.

*

The next few days passed with no mention of what happened in Sherlock's room. Margaux found herself slipping things into conversation, like small invitations to talk about his problems. But he never took them. Instead he focused on the assignment, finishing it proudly two days before their deadline.

Sherlock sat alone in the large dining hall. He was reading a book as he ate his lunch, his eyes flickering up with a glare to anyone who tried to sit at his table.

Behind him, Sebastian and his friends sat joking loudly, throwing a rugby ball back and forth. Margaux sat on the other side of the room with a group of friends, finding herself distracted by their obnoxious jeering.

Suddenly, the rugby ball flew into the air, spinning quickly as it soared towards Sherlock. He kept his eyes on his book as he raised his hand, blocking the ball and batting it away with perfect reflexes.

The boys began to laugh.

"There you go, proof he's a robot," said one of them.

"Robot? He's bloody rainman."

They all laughed again. Sherlock glanced up at them for a moment before rolling his eyes and returning to his book.

"Hey Holmes, is it true you can you tell what I had for breakfast based on the colour of my socks?"

"I wouldn't call grimy sweat stains a colour," he replied.

"Ooh we've angered him."

Margaux could feel the anger rising in her stomach. Before she could realise what she was doing, she stood up and marched across the room, stopping at the table and clicking to get their attention.

"Hi I'm a forensic psychology student and I was wondering if you boys would be interested in taking part in a study?"

They all looked up at her with curiosity.

"Yeah," she smiled. "It's about grown men with tiny brains and small dicks, I think you'd all be perfect."

"Excuse me?"

"Well how else would you explain why a group of guys in their twenties still think it's funny to bully someone because they're smarter than you?"

" _Bully_? We're just poking a bit of fun! It's fun, isn't it Holmes!"

Sherlock stayed quiet.

"Doesn't look like fun from where I'm standing," she replied. "Grow up and leave him alone."

She stormed out of the dining hall, shaking with anger as she heard them laughing behind her.

She stood outside chewing her fingernail, taking deep breaths in an attempt to calm herself down. She looked up to see Sherlock walking towards her, her heart sinking when she saw the anger on his face.

"Why did you do that?" he asked.

"I was sticking up for you. They were picking on you and it's not okay."

"So?"

" _So_ I stood up for you. That's what friends do-"

"We're not friends," he snapped.

She stared at him with wide eyes. "Oh..."

"You had no right to do that, Margaux. I don't know why you think working on an assignment together gives you the right to meddle in my business, but it stops now," he hissed. "I know it might be hard for you to comprehend since you're _so perfect_ that someone might not want to be friends with you. But I don't. I don't have friends, I don't want friends and I don't need you using me to fulfil some sick saviour complex."

She choked back a cry, searching for something to say. "I'm sorry I misunderstood," she said quietly, before walking away.

*

They sat in the lecture theatre with their notes in hand. The air between them was icy, unable to look at each other as they waited to be called on.

"Did you get my email with the annotations?" she asked.

"Yes," he replied.

"Did you agree?"

"Yes."

"Good."

"Sherlock Holmes and Margaux Cave, you're up," said Paul as he stepped aside and gestured to the front.

They gave their presentation. Sherlock listened in awe as Margaux delivered her parts with ease; oozing charm and faking a perfect smile. He had never felt this way before - a sinking in his gut that made him want to apologise in front of everyone. This must be guilt, he thought.

Paul dismissed the class. Thanking them all and wishing them a happy Christmas break. Sherlock hovered beside Margaux as she gathered her things and packed them into her bag. He tried to speak, but before the words could leave him, she was gone.

*

Students swayed and stumbled across campus, singing Christmas songs and clinking their beer bottles. Sherlock looked up at the night sky, the stars were less bright that night.

He waited awkwardly near her halls. Battling with himself about whether or not to go and find her room, knock on her door and apologise. But before he had the chance, the main door opened. He watched as she walked down the path with her friends, her hair tied back, her body wrapped in a tight dress and high heels.

He stood frozen, just out of sight as they began to walk towards the campus exit. She was almost there when he finally began to walk.

"Margaux..." he said breathlessly as he caught up with her.

"Sherlock?"

Her friends eyed him suspiciously.

"I..." he stammered. "Can I talk to you for a moment?"

"Erm." She paused, thinking for what felt like forever. "Okay."

"Marg, the taxi's waiting," said one of her friends.

"It's okay, go and get in it. I'll walk down and meet you there."

Sherlock turned to them. "I'll walk with her, to make sure she arrives safe."

They looked at him for a moment before finally turning around and walking to their cab.

"You don't have to walk me down," she said quietly.

"I never planned to. I just said that so they'd leave."

She was so mad at him, yet she couldn't help but laugh. "Do you want to come inside?"

He looked up at her building reluctantly.

"They've all gone out drinking," she added.

He nodded and followed her in.

She unlocked the door and let him inside her room. He stood there awkwardly, watching as she pulled a full-sized bottle of gin from her bag.

"Do you want some?" she asked.

"You were taking that out with you?"

"Poor student, remember? Much cheaper to buy lemonades all night and top them up with this in the toilets."

"That's rather genius."

"It's common practice, really." She sat on the bed and took a swig from the bottle. "What did you want to talk to me about?"

"I..." he shifted on his feet. "I owe you an apology."

Her eyes widened. "Really?"

"Yes, really. What I said to you the other day, it was... unnecessarily cruel."

She pressed her lips together. "But was it true?"

"What?"

"I can get over _how_ you said it, Sherlock. But I don't think I can get over it if you actually meant it."

He stood with his hands on his hips, his jaw sharp as he clenched his teeth. "But why?"

"Because I _like_ you."

"No one likes me."

"I do."

"You shouldn't."

"Tell me, did you mean it?" she pressed.

"I... no. I didn't mean it."

"Okay. Well then it's fine."

"Really? Just like that?"

"I forgive easy. It's a character flaw - I'm working on it." She stood up. "Also, I think deep down I knew you didn't mean it."

"How could you have known that?"

"Because when I found you in your room the other night, you wouldn't let go of me."

He looked around awkwardly, cringing at the thought of her seeing him like that. But then he stopped, remaining perfectly still as she walked towards him, closing the distance between them until he could smell her perfume. He stood there, scared to move as she leaned forward and took his face in her hand.

"What are you doing?" he whispered.

"I don't know, I just want to try something," she whispered back. "Shall I stop?"

There was a long silence as they stared at each other.

"No," he finally said.

Slowly, she pressed her lips against his, feeling his apprehension and wondering if he'd ever done this before. She felt his hand rest on her waist as he returned the kiss, his breath shaking. She pulled away, looking up at him as he kept his hand on her waist.

"You should... you should go and be with your friends," he said.

"Will you come?" she replied.

"No."

"Well then I'm fine here."

"You may be. But I don't know if _I_ am."

"Why?"

"Because I know where this is going to lead. And everything in my mind is screaming at me to walk away."

"You could always just... blame it on chemicals."


	8. The Human Side • One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Requested on FFN: 'pls do a chapter on the kids getting a crush and how the parents deal with it/how the other kids are affected. Or being older (teenagers) and solving their own case.'
> 
> Author's Note: I received two requests that were too similar to make separate one shots for, so I've decided to put them together and make a two-part one shot instead. Part one is based on the request above. Part two will be dedicated to the second requester.

The Human Side

Part One

"I'll take it!"

"No, Vaughan, you won't."

Sherlock had been having the same argument with his son since he was a child. He would be going through clients, choosing his next case, and whenever he came across one that wasn't 'interesting enough', the boy would beg to let him try and and solve it.

Vaughan had taken after his father in almost every way; tall and slender with thick, dark hair just long enough to tuck behind his ears. His face was sharp and handsome, with piercing blue eyes that could make a heart stop with one look. He was eighteen, in his second year of A Levels, and like any child of Sherlock Holmes, completely and utterly bored. He would turn up late to class and spend his lessons questioning the teachers, amusing the other students with his ability to turn even the most simple tasks into hour-long debates.

"You have an exam tomorrow," said Sherlock, sitting in his armchair in 221B. "Shouldn't you be... revising or whatever it is you're supposed to do?"

"It's a multiple choice test. I've already worked out what the answers will be. A, C, B, B, C, A, C-"

"How have you done that?"

"Studied previous test papers and identified an algorithm." He shrugged.

"And to think, in that time you could've just studied the material."

"Where's the fun in that?"

They shared a smirk. Sherlock returned to the stack of letters in his hand, throwing aside his rejected cases. Vaughan walked over to them and picked up the first envelope, slipping out the paper and skimming over it.

"Go on, dad, please? It's so simple, I'll have it solved by tea time."

"Oh let the lad help, Sherlock," said Mrs Hudson as she walked in with a tray of tea.

"Mrs Hudson has spoken..." said Vaughan as he raised his eyebrows hopefully.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and sighed. "Fine. Meet with the girl and assess the case. Don't do anything stupid."

He grinned and grabbed his coat. "I won't."

"If it gets too complicated then you call me. Do you understand?"

"Have a bit of faith, old man."

"Oi!" Mrs Hudson put her hands on her hips. "We'll have less of that. If he's an 'old man' then what does that make me?"

"An antique?" said Sherlock.

She hit him hard on the arm. Vaughan laughed as he hurried towards the stairs.

*

He walked across the university campus looking around at the tall buildings and imagining himself studying there. He'd started to feel the pressure of choosing his future; what degree he would pick, what institution he would attend. Would he go on to do a PhD like his mother? Or follow in his father's footsteps and create a job of his own?

A group of girls eyed him as he walked past. He glanced in their direction, noticing their giggles and blushes, and kept walking. He had spent the majority of his teens pretending to be oblivious to romantic advances - ignoring flirty conversation, avoiding kisses and awkward touches. But truthfully, he was more than aware that people desired him - he just didn't care.

A girl stood outside one of the accommodation buildings, waiting with her arms folded, her dark coiled hair blowing in her face as she kept her head down to avoid the cold.

He approached her with confidence. "Lucy Bridge?"

"Yes." She looked up at him. "Mr Holmes?"

"Yes, hello." He reached out his hand and shook hers firmly.

She laughed as her eyes darted across his face. "I don't know why but I expected you to be-"

"Older?"

"Yeah."

He smiled and pointed to himself. "Mr Holmes... Junior."

"Oh! That makes more sense."

Vaughan scanned the property, tilting his head to look down the side. "So, a peeping tom?"

She nodded. He noted how her body became rigid, frozen with fear as she thought about it. "I wake up every night to them looking in through my window. It's terrifying."

"Okay, well why don't you take me around the outside so I can have a look at where they've been standing."

"Well that's going to be a bit difficult..."

"Why?"

"My room's on the fourth floor."

"Ah. I must've skimmed over that part of your letter."

*

He stood at the window in Lucy's room. It looked out onto a dark, narrow pathway overgrown with weeds and moss, and the building opposite blocked the sun, making the room shadowy and dim.

"Nice view," he lied, trying not to sound too sarcastic.

"Yeah. The uni spent millions last year building new halls for the second and third years. Us first years just sort of got lumped in the old ones."

"Where does this path lead?"

She appeared at his side, her arm brushing against his as she looked down at the ground below. "People use it as a short cut to get off campus to the main road."

"Is it busy?"

"Mostly during the day. It's pretty scary at night because it's so dark." She walked away and sat down at her desk as she spoke. "So you can imagine how terrifying it'd be to see a person looking in at you. Especially when you're so high up and there's nothing outside to climb on."

"What did you do after it first happened?"

"After the first night, I called the police. They weren't much help. Said they couldn't do anything until I actually got hurt. Then after a few more times, I contacted the uni themselves - they referred me to a counsellor."

"They think you're crazy?"

"Maybe I am."

"I've seen crazy. You're not it."

She smiled, twirling herself around on her desk chair. "So then a friend of mine who's like... the _biggest_ fan of your dad, said to write to him and see if he'd take a look. I must have been living under a rock my whole life because I had no idea who he was. Sorry."

"It's okay. Actually quite nice to meet someone who doesn't just call me 'Sherlock Holmes' son'."

"What _do_ I call you, by the way?"

"Vaughan."

"Vaughan. Interesting. I bet people pronounce _that_ wrong a lot."

"Oh, all the time."

She watched as he examined the window, waiting with bated breath - desperate for him to debunk what she had seen, to say it had been a trick of the light or a cruel prank.

"So?" she asked.

"Well you're definitely not crazy..." he pointed to the window, beckoning her over to him.

She joined him, her mouth falling open when she noticed a faint smudged handprint on the outside of the glass.

*

Vaughan stepped out into the cold, turning back to Lucy as she leaned against the door to keep it open.

"You seem too young to have a job like this," she said.

"I am," he laughed. "It's more of an apprenticeship."

"So your dad's got you working for free. Wow, he _is_ clever."

"It's what I've wanted to do my whole life. I don't mind doing it for free if it means I get to do it at all."

"That's a nice way of looking at it."

A girl walked past them into the building, doing a double take and smiling shyly as she laid eyes on Vaughan.

"I imagine you get that a lot." Lucy smiled.

"Get what?"

"People eyeing you up."

"What makes you think that?"

She stepped back and gestured to him in an exaggerated motion. He dropped his head and laughed.

"Don't act coy," she said. "If you weren't working on my case, I'd have absolutely tried it on with you by now."

He laughed again, feeling his cheeks flush hot.

"So what's next?" she asked.

"I'll go back to my dad and run everything by him. See if he has any ideas."

She nodded.

"But er..." he scratched the back of his head. "Here's my phone number. In case anything happens in the meantime."

He handed her a piece of paper with his number scrawled in pen. She looked at it for a moment before slipping it in her pocket.

*

There was a fort in the living room made of cushions and bedsheets. Vaughan walked in and raised an eyebrow before heading into the study - empty.

"Hello?" he called out.

"Hi," a voice chimed from beneath the mound of sheets on the floor.

He knelt down and crawled inside, seeing his sister curled up amongst the pillows, the glow from her iPad illuminating her face.

"Aren't you a bit old for forts?" he asked.

"I'm twelve," Flora replied. "And it's comfy."

He laughed quietly. "Where's dad?"

She shrugged.

"Is he home?"

She shrugged again.

He rolled his eyes and climbed out, making his way into the hall to look for Sherlock. The front door opened. He turned to see Margaux stepping into the house. She threw her keys on a table and shook off her coat.

"Oh hi, love," she said. "You alright?"

"I need to talk to dad."

"Nice to see you too," she mumbled. "What do you need to talk to him about?"

"A case."

"And you didn't think to ask me? Your mother? The behavioural analyst?"

"I know, I know. He's just... he's better with the weird ones."

The front door opened again. This time, Sherlock walked into the house. His brows stitched together at the sight of the gathering in the hallway.

"What's going on here?" he asked.

"I was looking for you," replied Vaughan.

"Ah. I wasn't here."

"Yeah, I gathered that."

Margaux turned to her husband. "You were out?" she pressed her tongue into her cheek. "You left our daughter home alone?"

"Just for half an hour. I told her not to leave the fort."

She shook her head and made her way into the living room, leaving the boys alone.

"That case you sent me on," Vaughan began. "I was wondering if you could take a look over it."

...

"Sounds like a hallucinogenic. Maybe a chemical from a leak somewhere," said Sherlock as he sat at the island in the kitchen.

"I thought so too, but there was a hand print on her window."

"Could've been left by a window cleaner, a builder."

Vaughan sighed. "Dad, everyone she's asked for help has told her she's crazy. I can't go back to her and tell her it's all in her head."

"Sometimes even in the most bizarre mysteries, there's a perfectly basic, rational explanation."

"I don't think this one's so simple."

"Is it not simple? Or do you just not want it to be simple?"

They glared at each other. Sherlock stood up to leave, Vaughan took a step forward.

"Dad... before you met mum, did you ever... get _feelings_ for a client?"

He turned around, placing a hand on his hip. "No."

"Right... Did uncle John?"

"No. Well, maybe- I don't know. I never paid much attention. Why? Do you have feelings for this girl?"

"I'm not sure. I think I might. Is that bad?"

"It's not ideal when you're trying to impartially investigate her case."

He sighed. "That's what I was worried about."

*

"It's just a crush," said Margaux as she undid her shirt.

"A _crush."_ Sherlock grimaced, sitting on the edge of the bed.

She giggled. "He's eighteen. It happens."

"Well, what do we do?"

"Nothing. Did _your_ parents get involved in _your_ crushes?"

He looked up at her, tilting his head to one side. "Think about what you've just said, then think about who you said it to."

"Right. That was stupid of me." She walked over to him, wrapping her arms around his neck and sitting in his lap. "It's nice that you're worried about him. But he can handle himself."

"That's not what I'm worried about. He spent his whole life wanting to be a detective. The first case I let him attend solo and he develops a crush on the client..."

"That's the human side of him."

"The _Margaux_ side of him."

She laughed and hit him gently on the back of the head. "You say that like it's a bad thing."

"Of course not." He sighed. "What if he gets hurt?"

"You hurt me a lot before we were together. I survived. Besides, he only met the girl today. He fancies her, it's not like he's in love or anything."

The sound of footsteps echoed from the landing outside their bedroom. Vaughan barged into the room breathlessly, throwing a jumper over his head.

"Mum, I need a lift."

She climbed off Sherlock's lap and closed her shirt over her chest. "Vaughan, it's after midnight."

"I know, I know. But I just got a call from Lucy. She's hysterical; said the person was at her window again."

"I'll go," said Sherlock.

"No, dad, it's _my_ case."

"You have an exam in the morning. I'm not having you jeopardise it for a girl."

"It's not about Lucy. It's about getting to the bottom of what's going on."

"If it wasn't about her then you'd have no problem letting me go instead."

Vaughan stood in the doorway in a silent stand off with his father. He brushed his hair out of his face and inhaled sharply. "I'm going," he said. "I can go and help and still make it to college in time for the test."

Margaux huffed. "Fine. I'll drive you."

"Margaux!"

She turned to her husband. "Look, he's going to do what he wants regardless of what we say. That's the _Sherlock_ side of him."

_To be continued..._


	9. The Human Side • Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part two is dedicated to FandomHoarder who asked to see how Sherlock would cope when his kids started dating. Hope you like it!

Part Two

He walked into the room and hurried straight to the window, looking down at the pitch black alley below. Lucy sat on her bed with her knees tucked tight to her chest, watching his every move.

"I'm sorry for calling you," she said quietly, her voice shaking. "I just panicked, I didn't know who else to..."

"It's okay," he replied. "Whoever was here seems to have gone now."

"Did your dad have any idea about what could be happening?"

He scratched his face and walked over to the bed, perching on the edge and turning to look at her. "He said there's tons of explanations for this, and that you're probably not seeing an actual person at your window."

"Great, someone else who doesn't believe me."

"I believe you."

She looked up at him, her round, brown eyes tired and sad. She sighed. "Thanks, Vaughan."

She reached across the bed and took his hand. He looked down at her fingers squeezing his; her skin was soft and warm, her thumb lightly stroking his knuckles.

"Anyway," he said. "I should probably go. I'll keep working on things and come back when-"

"Please don't leave me."

"Wh-What?"

"I- I like having you here. It makes me feel safe."

He swallowed hard and checked the time. "Okay," he said softly. "Alright, I'll er..."

"You can tell me more about what it's like working with your dad." She smiled.

He let out a quiet laugh. "Where to start."

They sat up all night talking, until the sun rose and the birds chirped outside. Vaughan kept checking his watch, counting down the hours until he had to leave to get to college on time. But with every laugh, every smile, every new conversation, he became less concerned. And before he knew it, the time had passed and he was still there.

*

"You missed your exam!?" Margaux was furious.

She had sat on the stairs waiting for her son to come home, unleashing her wrath the second he stepped through the front door.

"You _promised!_ " she shouted.

Vaughan sighed and ran his hand through his hair. "I'm sorry. I just... It didn't feel right leaving her."

"You mean to tell us you forfeited an _entire_ A Level for a girl you met yesterday?" Sherlock interjected as he stood opposite him in the hallway.

"I didn't do it for her," he replied. "I did it for the case - to try and get to the bottom of-"

"Do you know who you sound like right now?" Margaux pointed to Sherlock. "Him."

"Hey!" said Sherlock.

She stood up and walked down the stairs. "You didn't do it for 'the case', Vaughan, you did it because you like her and you prioritised impulse over common sense!"

"Does it even matter? It's just computer science. I'm not even going to use it!"

"Yes it matters. It matters that you don't seem to care at all about your studies."

"I don't _seem_ to care because I don't care, mum," he snapped, his tone was cynical and rude.

"Hey," Sherlock began, growing angrier by the second. "We never forced this on you, Vaughan. You chose to go to college. You _chose_ to study. The least you can do is put some effort in."

"It's one exam! One exam for a subject that I'll never even use when I-"

"Vaughan, you cannot go about your life shrugging things off and thinking because you're a Holmes, you'll be fine."

Flora popped her head in from the living room, watching them argue like it were a play and she had front row seats.

"Because I'm a _Holmes?_ You think I skate through life on the back of your name!?"

"I think you're under the impression that the name gives you the right to act however you please."

"I wonder who I learned _that_ from!"

"Vaughan!" Margaux interrupted.

"No, mum, it's true! He's berating me for behaving exactly like he does."

"You're not me!" Sherlock shouted, his voice shaking the house.

It was so loud and angry that it frightened Flora back into the living room, even making Margaux jump as she stood between them. Vaughan stared at him, his eyes wide and watery.

"You want to act like a fool over a pretty girl you barely know, be my guest," said Sherlock. "But you're off the case."

"But-"

"You're off all cases. Don't bother coming back to Baker Street. You want to be a detective, you do it on your own."

They stood in silence as Sherlock grabbed his coat and scarf and walked out the front door, slamming it behind him. Vaughan looked at his mother.

She shook her head. "You made a really stupid decision," she said softly before making her way into the living room.

He stood alone in the hall, his father's anger still rattling his bones.

*

With each day that went by, the tension in the house grew. Dinners were quiet and conversations short, both sides too stubborn to make amends.

It was early evening and the sky was almost completely black as Sherlock and Margaux stood together in the kitchen. She wrapped her arms around his waist and looked up at him with her chin resting on his chest.

"You look tired," he said as he looked down at her.

"I am. Am I old enough to retire yet?"

"Not even close."

"Damn."

The kitchen door opened slowly and Vaughan stepped in. Beside him, a young woman they'd never met stood with her arms by her sides, glancing around awkwardly.

"Mum, Dad, this is Lucy."

Margaux blinked a few times before clearing her throat and letting go of her husband. "Erm, hi Lucy. Nice to meet you."

"You too." The young girl smiled.

"Dad..." Vaughan looked up at him and raised his eyebrows.

Margaux elbowed him in the side.

"Yes, hello... Lucy," he said. "Why are you here?"

"Sherlock."

They all sat in the living room. Lucy and Vaughan on the couch next to Margaux, and Sherlock in an armchair facing them. His palms were together against his lips, one leg crossed over the other as he stared at the girl - deductions floating around her that no one could see but him.

_Journalism student. Only child. Vegetarian. Extrovert. Samoan heritage. Romanticist. Childhood dancer. Intelligent. Social drinker. Zealous. Nail-biter. Dog lover. Over-achiever. Liar._

"Dad..." Vaughan's voice made the deductions disappear like smoke.

He blinked a few times. "Hm?"

"Lucy asked about your job..."

"I just wondered why you never joined the police officially," she said with an awkward laugh.

"Oh. Because I didn't want to," he replied bluntly.

"Oh, right..."

"So," Sherlock began cynically. "What is this then? Are you... dating or whatever they call it?"

Margaux rolled her eyes.

Vaughan sat forward. "No. Well, yes. I don't know."

"How can you not know the nature of your relationship?"

"You're one to talk," said Margaux.

"We're just getting to know each other," said Vaughan.

"And he's been helping me get to the bottom of the peeping tom."

"Ah yes, the _somewhat_ human-shaped shadow that you _sometimes_ see when it's dark and you're delirious from sleep..."

"Dad!"

"No, it's okay," she said feebly. "I know it seems mad. I'd hate for you to get a bad impression of me based on that."

"Oh, the bad impression's not based on _that_."

"Right, this was a mistake. Let's go," said Vaughan as he stood up.

Lucy joined him at his side. "It was er, it was nice to meet you both."

After they left, Margaux turned to Sherlock with her lips pressed together firmly.

"Happy now?" she said.

"What?"

"You made them leave."

"So?"

"So... he likes her."

"Oh please, I've had an ink stain on my coat longer than he's known her."

"It doesn't matter. You can't approach everyone our children bring home by analysing them."

"Our _children_?" He raised an eyebrow. "It's funny, Margaux, you said 'children' as if there will ever be someone out there good enough for our daughter."

She laughed. "Flora's almost thirteen. She's going to start getting crushes. She's probably already had crush-"

He plugged his fingers in his ears.

*

Lucy unlocked the door to her room and let Vaughan inside. He was still ranting, in fact, he hadn't stopped ranting since they left his house.

"I'm just sorry," he finished. "My dad's not good with new people."

"It's okay," she laughed. "You're his kid. He's bound to be protective."

"I just wish he could meet one of my friends without interrogating them."

" _Friends?_ "

"Yeah... why? Is that not- should I not call you that?"

"It's okay." She laughed. "Listen, I'm meeting some people at the student bar soon. Do you want to come?"

He pushed his hands in his pockets. "Erm... okay. Yeah sure, why not."

"Great. I'm just going to jump in the shower."

She disappeared into the bathroom, leaving him standing awkwardly in the middle of her room. He sat at her desk, twirling himself around in her chair when his elbow accidentally knocked her laptop.

The screen came to life. He reached over to close it when a document caught his eye. He looked over his shoulder, listening to her humming over the sound of splashing water, before turning back to the laptop and opening the document.

_JO4011 - 'Investigative Journalism in Practice: Disproving the Science of Deduction' by Lucy Bridge._

His eyes narrowed as he began to read the essay, feeling his skin burn with anger, his heart thudding in his chest. The door opened, letting steam escape into the room. She stood in the doorway clutching a towel around herself, her mouth falling open as she noticed him at the desk.

"Vaughan, don't-"

"The science of deduction is an observation technique coined by the amateur detective Sherlock Holmes," Vaughan began to read. "In this essay, I will be explaining and analysing the effectiveness of immersive investigative methods in journalism-"

"Vaughan, please stop."

"I aim to disprove the science of deduction as a viable technique by fabricating a mystery and recording Holmes' use of deductive methods..."

"Please."

He held up his hand, his voice growing angrier as he got further into the essay. "In proving that the method itself is flawed, I will therefore be able to validate the effectiveness of immersive and undercover journalism."

She ran up behind him and slammed the laptop shut. Her chest was rising and falling heavily, panic clear on her face.

"Don't you dare say it's not what it looks like," said Vaughan, his voice so low he almost sounded like his father.

"It... it's..." she paced the floor anxiously. "That's what it started out as, yes. But I didn't expect to like you."

"Didn't stop your from continuing your little investigation."

"I had to. It got too close to the deadline for me to change my topic. I swear to you, I never meant for you to see this."

"Which translates to: you were never going to tell me."

"Vee-"

"Don't call me that. Only people I care about get to call me that."

She took a step back. "Wow."

" _Wow_? I'm sorry, did I offend you? Did I hurt your feelings?" He stood up. "You've tried to discredit my father's life's work for the sake of an assignment!"

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry, I really like you, Vaughan. I do."

"Mm, suddenly I don't like _you_ very much anymore."

"Please don't say that. This was... It was a bad judgement call. These past few days have been great, I really don't want this to end over something so stupid."

"If it's stupid then delete the essay."

"What? I can't do that, it's due on Friday."

"If you regret writing it then delete it."

"I..."

He shrugged. "I missed an exam for you. So go ahead, delete it."

"I..." She pulled the towel tighter around herself. "I can't."

He nodded. "Hope you get good marks."

She chased him as he made his way to the door, begging him to stay. He didn't look back, even though he wanted to. Instead he walked with his head down, hands in pockets, never stopping until he reached home.

*

Margaux sat at the desk in the study with an icy glass of gin beside her. She leaned back in her chair and rolled her shoulders, trying to alleviate the tension wedged in her muscles. She returned to typing on her laptop when a shuffling came from behind her. She turned around and wheeled her chair into the doorway that led to the living room.

"Vaughan?" she said quietly, watching her son as he threw himself on the couch. "What's the matter."

He looked up at her and shook his head. It was clear he'd been crying. She stood up and hurried through, sitting down beside him and taking his face in her hand.

"Hey, look at me. What's the matter?"

He battled with himself for a moment, fighting back tears. "Lucy..." he said quietly. "She's... er... She was faking her case."

"What? Why would she do that?"

"So she could write an essay disproving dad's theories of deduction."

Margaux furrowed her brow. "What?" She could feel herself getting angry. But whether she was more angry for her son or her husband, she didn't know. "Why would someone _do_ that? Ugh! I fee like going down there and talking to her myself. What an absolute bitch!"

"Mum."

She sighed. "Sorry."

"I thought I was good at reading people," he almost laughed. "I really thought she needed my help."

"Hey, it's not your fault that she took advantage."

"Yeah but it's my fault for _letting_ her take advantage. You and dad were right; a pretty face and I was gone."

She tutted gently and pulled him into a hug. "I'm sorry, love."

Sherlock walked into the room, looking down at them as they cuddled on the couch. He furrowed his brow.

"Where's your girlfriend?" he asked bluntly.

"Sherlock," she said, shaking her head.

"No it's alright," said Vaughan. He looked up at his father. "She was using me to write an essay about you."

"She was... What? Right, where are her halls? I'm going down there-"

"No. Don't. It was my mistake. I shouldn't have let myself get caught up."

Margaux sighed. "Sherlock, please tell your son this was not his fault."

"I can't. Because it _was_ his fault," he said, pausing for a moment before letting out a sigh. "You trusted the wrong person. But that doesn't make you wrong or stupid. It makes you human."

Vaughan laughed to himself. "You know, you keep saying this 'human' thing like it's a positive. But I'm starting to feel like it's more of a detriment than anything."

"Being able to love is never a detriment." He looked down at his son with a smile. "Now where does she live?" Sherlock clapped his hands together.

"I told you not to-"

"I'm not going to say anything to her. I just thought I'd give her a taste of her own medicine." He thought for a moment. "I'm going to need a rather large ladder and a life size cardboard cutout."

*

Vaughan sat on the couch in 221B with his head thrown back staring at the ceiling. He was waiting for Sherlock and John to return, wondering if he should take a look over the pile of letters on the mantel. A sound from the staircase stopped him from getting up, he turned to see Rosie walking through the door.

She had a backpack over her shoulder, her long blonde hair cascading from beneath a woolly hat.

"Where's my dad?" she asked.

He shrugged. "Prancing about London with _my_ dad, probably."

She rolled her eyes and threw her bag down, sitting next to him on the couch. She lay her head back, copying him as he continued to stare at the ceiling. 

"So," she said. "I hear you got your heart broken."

"Does my dad have to tell your dad everything?"

She laughed. "Are you alright?"

He shrugged. "I only knew her for a couple of days. I think I'll live."

"God, you fell in love after 24 hours. You've known me forever and I can't even get you to text me back."

He laughed. "Shut up."

"Really though, I hope you're alright."

"I'm fine. What is it they say? Plenty more fish in the sea?"

"Exactly. And sometimes, you end up finding love where you least expect it..."

"Are you talking about yourself?"

"No!"

"You're so lame," he laughed.

"I wasn't talking about me!"

"It's okay, Rosie, we all know you love me."

"No I don't."

"Mm."

"Vee. I don't."

"Do."

"Don't."

"Do."

They argued back and forth for the rest of the afternoon, both too stubborn to let the other get the last word.


	10. Break Away

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Requested on FFN: 'Can I make a request where Margaux and Sherlock go on holiday?'  
> Author's Note: The fluff took over, okay. I couldn't help it.

Break Away

The sun gleamed high in the cloudless sky. Below it was a beach with white sands and crystal clear water. Palm trees lined the edge of the beach in a vibrant green and the warm breeze carried the scent of sea salt through the air. It was quiet, the only sounds coming from the brushing waves and birds chirping nearby.

The villa sat atop a hill, its patio looking out over the tranquil scene. Sherlock lay on a sun lounger with Margaux between his legs. She was laying back against his stomach, using his thighs as armrests, his chest as a pillow. She closed her eyes beneath her sunglasses and let the sun shower her with warmth, taking a deep breath and letting out a relaxed sigh.

"I could fall asleep like this," she said.

"Mm," Sherlock rumbled, too relaxed to form a coherent sentence.

She tilted her head and looked up at him, giggling at the serenity on his face.

"I told you this holiday was a good idea," she said.

"Still hate the sun."

"You seem to be enjoying it right now."

"Perhaps it's not the sun I'm enjoying."

He wrapped his arms around her, resting his hands on her stomach. She linked her fingers with his, running her thumb over his wedding ring. He kissed the side of her head before raising her hand to his lips and kissing that too.

She rolled over and pushed her sunglasses on top of her head; the frames leaving red indents on her cheeks. Sherlock chuckled.

"What?" she asked.

"Nothing," he said, still laughing slightly.

She rose up on her knees and straddled him. "Tell me."

He traced his finger along the red lines. "You look funny."

"Oh, well I'll just go inside then..."

She made a feeble attempt to climb off his lap, giggling as she felt his arms wrap around her to keep her in place. She leant forward and kissed him, her body pressing against his as if the sun were melting them together.

A phone began to ring from inside. Margaux broke the kiss and got up.

"Ignore it, ignore it," said Sherlock in a sulk.

"I can't, it'll be the kids on FaceTime." She shouted as she ran into the cool, air-conditioned villa to grab her phone.

"Ah yes, kids. I forgot we had kids."

She kicked him gently as she returned with the phone, before sitting beside him and answering the call. The screen came to life with two sets of round, piercing blue eyes. Margaux smiled and waved at the camera.

"Hi babies!" she said.

"Hi mummy," Vaughan replied.

"Mama!" Flora shouted as she pointed at the screen.

It was the longest they'd ever been away, and Margaux was finding it harder than she'd expected. She leaned back to get Sherlock in frame, laughing as Flora screamed 'Dada' at the top of her lungs.

"We miss you so much," said Margaux.

"Miss you too," said Vaughan.

"So what've you been up to today then?"

"Uncle John took us to see Mrs Hudson. She made us cakes."

"Sounds amazing. Are you being good for uncle John?"

The camera shook before landing still with a view of the ceiling. She listened closely as Vaughan and Rosie began to argue in the background.

"Hello?" she called.

After a few minutes, the camera moved again, settling on John's tired face.

"Hi," she said sympathetically. "How are you coping?"

"Well, I've currently got a one-year-old, a five-year-old and a seven-year-old running about the place high on sugar from Mrs Hudson's cakes..."

"So... not coping then?"

"Barely. Maybe a bit. But mostly no."

She laughed. "Just a few more days and we'll be back."

"Yeah, then I think _I'll_ be booking myself a holiday."

Sherlock sat forward, gesturing for her to hand him the phone.

"John," he began as he raised the phone to his face. "Any word on the Campbell case?"

Margaux rolled her eyes. She got up and walked to the edge of the pool, sitting down and plunging her legs into the water. The sound of Sherlock and John discussing their case echoed behind her. She jumped in, letting herself sink under the surface. It was cool and peaceful as she swam slowly to the other side, before emerging with a gasp for air, slicking her hair back and wiping her eyes.

She looked across to see Sherlock standing near the edge, his pale skin glowing in the sunlight.

"John said he'll call back tomorrow. It's almost 8pm in London, he said he's going to attempt to get them to sleep."

" _Attempt_ being the key word," she replied.

He watched as she glided gently through the water, kicking lazily and dipping her head under.

She noticed him looking at her and smiled. "Come and join me."

"No thanks," he replied, more bluntly than he had meant to.

"Why not?"

He didn't say anything.

She raised her eyebrow. "You're going inside to work on your case, aren't you..."

"I won't be long, I promise. Just until midday."

"It's 9 in the morning!"

"I'll make it up to you."

"Sherlock..."

It was too late. He had already disappeared inside the cool shade of the villa. She groaned and threw her head back, letting herself float on the surface of the water.

*

By mid-afternoon, the sun was high in the sky, glaring down with a scorching heat. They walked along the beach together hand-in-hand. Margaux looked over the top of her sunglasses at the crystal clear water as Sherlock continued to talk.

"But if I just tell you the details of the case, surely you can give me your opinion?"

"I told you, Sherlock, I'll help you when we get back to London. Right now, I'm in holiday mode."

"What about if I talk out loud to myself and you just so happen to overhear the details? Then would you give me your analysis? Just a teen tiny suspect profile?"

"Hm, nope."

He huffed and ran a hand through his hair, undoing an extra button at the nape of his neck, secretly wishing he hadn't worn a long-sleeved shirt.

"Let's go in the sea," said Margaux.

"It's actually an ocean."

"Fine. Let's go in the _ocean_."

"I'm quite alright. You go, I'll be sitting in the shade somewhere."

He had spent their entire holiday avoiding the water. There was no particular reason. He simply hadn't felt like swimming. He felt almost guilty as Margaux sighed and stripped down to her bikini, then he felt irritated as he noticed the sunbathing men ogling her as she walked alone across the sand.

*

The evening was warm, filling the air with the perfume of orchids and sea water. Margaux stood in front of a floor-length mirror, turning from side to side as she assessed her appearance.

Sherlock walked into the room in a pair of trousers and a tight-fitting white shirt, his eyes sparkling as they fell on her. She noticed him in the reflection of the mirror and smiled.

"You look nice," she said before turning to face him.

He didn't reply, instead he continued to stand perfectly still with his hands behind his back as he eyed her up and down.

"I've... never seen that dress before," he finally said.

"That's because I bought it especially for this holiday," she replied as she smoothed her hands over the fabric and settled them on her waist. "What do you think? Can you tell I've birthed two kids? The only acceptable answer is no, by the way."

He laughed. "No."

"Good. Really though, what do you think?"

"I suddenly feel like skipping dinner..."

She grinned and walked towards him, curling her arms around his neck. "If I hadn't spent an hour getting my hair to behave in this humidity then I'd be all for it."

"Okay," he said simply. "But just know that I'm going to be spending the entire evening deducing the quickest way of removing that dress."

She felt a flutter in her stomach, and her reaction didn't go unnoticed - Sherlock's eyes fell on the goosebumps rising on her arms.

He stifled a smirk. "I'll try not to rip it like I did with the ball gown."

"You can rip it a little bit."

He placed his hand on the back of her head and pulled her up to kiss him. She tasted like mint and smelled like newly-applied perfume - not yet mixed with the heat of her skin. She pulled away and stared into his eyes for a moment.

"Do you think John's okay with the kids?" she asked.

His face deflated, brows coming together. "Were you really just thinking about _John_ while kissing me?"

"Sorry," she laughed.

"He'll be fine. He's reminded me on more than one occasion that being friends with me is like babysitting the world's most difficult child."

"He's not wrong."

"Besides, I'm sure he's getting help from Molly and Mrs Hudson."

"Yeah, you're right."

"As I always am."

She rolled her eyes and gave his hair a gentle tug before walking away to put on her shoes.

*

In the time it took them to get from the villa to the restaurant, Margaux's wavy hair had turned to thick curls in the heat. She flicked it off her shoulders and looked out at the view of the beach from the open windows before turning to Sherlock who sat across the table.

He'd caught the sun across his face; the bridge of his nose and the tops of his cheekbones turning a slight pink. She'd never seen him with a sunburn before. It made him look more human, softening his angular features and warming his cold expression.

She lifted her drink and held it up. "Happy anniversary," she said.

"Happy anniversary," he replied.

She took a sip and placed the glass on the table. "I know you're not a fan of celebrating anniversaries so I appreciate you humouring me."

"I never said I wasn't a fan of anniversaries."

"You _literally_ said you find it ridiculous that couples congratulate themselves once a year for staying married."

"Ah yes, so I did."

"I mean, I think the fact that _we've_ managed to stay married for this long is something to celebrate."

"You didn't think we'd still be together by now?"

"I didn't think we'd both still be alive, if I'm honest."

He smiled, looking around at the bustling restaurant before turning back to Margaux. She was watching him, her chin resting on her fist.

"What?" he asked.

"Without trying to sound cheesy, sometimes I still can't believe that you're mine."

He rolled his eyes with a laugh. "It's been how many years?"

"I know, I know. But you're _Sherlock Holmes_."

"And you're Margaux Holmes. You loved me enough to take my name, does that not make _me_ the lucky one?"

"But you must be aware of how others see you."

"Irritating, difficult, pedantic..."

"Enigmatic, intelligent, attractive."

"No, darling, that's how _you_ see me." He sipped his drink. "Can you stop fawning over me now?"

She laughed. "I'll be fawning over you 'til the day I die, sorry."

Music played gently across the restaurant, blending with the sounds of clinking glasses and humming conversation. They ate their meals and ordered more drinks, talking quietly as if they were the only two people in the room.

A waiter walked past them carrying a large display of flowers. He stopped, noticing Margaux from the corner of his eye, and approached the table. He plucked a flower from the bunch with a charming smile, before speaking in a language she didn't understand.

"Nehenehe," he said as he handed her the flower.

"I'm sorry?" she replied politely.

"Uh," he thought for a moment before pointing to her. "Belle."

"Oh," she blushed. "Merci."

She rolled the stem of the flower between her fingers, smiling to herself as he walked away. She glanced up to see Sherlock glaring at her with a raised eyebrow.

"What?" she asked.

"Oh, don't let me interrupt your flirting," he replied sarcastically.

She pushed out her bottom lip and cocked her head. "Aw, are you jealous that the nice man gave me flower?" she teased.

"I just find it strange; almost as if I'm invisible and you're not wearing a _huge_ diamond ring on your finger. I can't believe he would just walk up to another man's wife when she's- Why are you looking at me like that?"

She shook her head and reached for her glass, raising it to her lips to hide a smirk.

"You're finding my annoyance arousing, aren't you," he said bluntly.

She let out a laugh, choking on her drink. "Maybe."

"I will never understand you." He leaned back, resting his elbow on the back of the chair and rubbing his eyes.

She offered him the flower like an olive branch. He scoffed at it; every act of disdain amusing her even more.

*

They left the restaurant, stepping out to see a night sky scattered with stars. The air was crisp and clean, the breeze warm as it brushed through their hair. Sherlock offered Margaux his arm. She linked it as they began their walk back to the villa, the flower hanging from her other hand.

"I think even before we got together, I always knew that for me, it was either you... or no one," she said.

"I find it fascinating that you put so much faith in me, even when I was denying how I felt about you."

She shrugged. "I loved you. Love makes people do stupid things, like taking your wife on holiday to a hot country even though you hate the sun..." she smiled. 

"Ah, now that was a calculated decision to get you alone and away from the children," he said, raising his index finger. "I wanted an undisturbed night's sleep. I also wanted to be able to have sex without the fear of waking anyone up."

She laughed, letting it trail off into an exhale as she thought for a moment. "Do you think if this hadn't happened..." She pointed to the scar across her collarbone. "You'd have ever told me how you felt?"

"Probably not." 

"Oh, nice."

"But I would have spent the rest of my life in anguish - battling with myself, hating myself, hurting you, and then hating myself even more for hurting you." He paused. "I don't like to think about what would have happened if I never told you."

"Well, Flora wouldn't be here."

"No, you're right, she wouldn't. Neither would-"

"No. More. Babies."

He rolled his eyes, the corners of his mouth curling into a smile. "Yes, fine, whatever you say."

*

Margaux walked right through to the back of the villa. She kicked off her shoes and pulled open the glass door leading onto the patio. She stood looking out at the beach in the distance, the night sky glittering in the reflection of the water.

Sherlock came up behind her, wrapping his arms around her and laying eyes on the view for himself.

"I like it better at night," he said.

"It's beautiful, isn't it," she replied as she took a step forward. "I know you were looking forward to removing my dress, so I'll let you unzip it for me."

"Out here?"

"Yes. I'm going in the pool. And you're joining me."

He sighed. "Why do you want to swim at this hour?"

"Because the closest we'll get to this at home is a late night bath after the kids go to bed." She turned to him. "Not really the same, is it."

He reluctantly helped her out of the dress, his eyes never leaving her as she peeled off each garment and threw them to the floor. She walked to the edge of the pool and crouched down, swirling her fingers in it to test the temperature.

He watched as she disappeared beneath the surface and emerged moments later in the middle of the water. She brushed her hair back and looked up at him.

"Well...?" she said.

He didn't move.

"It's okay," she continued. "I'm sure my waiter friend would love to-"

He grumbled and began unbuttoning his shirt. She giggled, watching triumphantly as he stripped down to his underwear and climbed in.

He disappeared under the water, and within moments, she felt his hands around her waist. He resurfaced in front of her, his dark curls wet and sticking to his face. She slicked them back and rested her hands on his shoulders.

"Hi," she said softly.

He looked down at her, silently admiring the way the moonlight glittered in the droplets on her face. He leant down and kissed her.

She curled her fingers into his wet hair and wrapped her legs around his waist, her lips never leaving his. He carried her as they floated gently around the pool, soaking up the sound of lapping waves and palm trees swaying in the breeze. It was bliss - the closest to paradise that they had ever been.


	11. Additions • One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Requested on Wattpad: 'Can I ask for a one shot where they actually have more kids?'
> 
> Author's Note: I got carried away and this oneshot ended up huge. So once again I've split it into two parts. Hope you guys don't mind!

Additions

Part One

The living room glowed in a warm, dim lamplight. The curtains were drawn, the volume on the television was low and a candle crackled on the coffee table. Sherlock sat on the couch, trying to follow the sitcom on television. He didn't laugh once, not even when the recorded audience laughter played, struggling to understand why anyone would find it funny.

Margaux walked into the room, closing the door slightly behind her. She breathed an exaggerated sigh of relief and smiled as she made her way over to the couch.

"They're both asleep, I'm a magician," she said.

He put his arm around her, keeping one sceptical eye on the television. "I give it an hour before Flora's up again."

Flora was six months old; tiny, adorable, and still refusing to sleep through the night. Sherlock and Margaux had grown accustomed to the constant state of exhaustion, taking it in their stride and relishing in every small moment of peace. It was a rare occasion for both children to be fast asleep at the same time, especially while the evening was young.

Sherlock pulled her closer and leaned in to kiss her. She smiled beneath his lips and returned the kiss, placing a hand on his face.

"Mm, what was that for?" she asked as they pulled away.

He shrugged. "Taking advantage of the time alone."

She kissed him again, tangling her fingers in his hair. He responded eagerly, his hand trailing from her thigh to her hip and eventually running up beneath her top.

"Ow." She broke the kiss.

"What did I do?"

"Oh, no it's nothing you did, don't worry. My boobs are a bit tender."

He raised an eyebrow.

She shook her head. "They're probably just sore from breastfeeding. It happens sometimes."

His expression remained the same.

She laughed. "Stop that. It's nothing, really. Just... come here." 

She took his face in her hands and kissed him again. She lay back on the couch and pulled him on top of her, feeling his apprehension melt away with every touch.

*

"You're pregnant."

The words bounced around her head like a pinball, never quite settling, never quieting down.

"Are you sure?" she asked feebly.

"Certain," the doctor replied.

Flora began trying to wriggle out of her mother's arms. Margaux turned her around and sat her on her lap, wrapping one arm around her and placing her elbow on the edge of the doctor's desk as she rubbed her mouth with her hand.

"I only had a baby six months ago," she said. "How can I be pregnant _again_?"

"It happens. Your hormones are still unpredictable, and contraception isn't always effective."

"Oh god." She covered her face with her hand.

"I take it this wasn't planned..."

She shook her head. "Absolutely not planned. This was the _furthest_ thing from planned."

"Well luckily there's options for you. I suggest going back and having a calm, rational conversation with your husband. Talk everything through and take some time to think everything over before making any decisions."

She looked up at the doctor. "Clearly you haven't met my husband."

*

The October sun shone through the windows of 221B, taking the edge off the cold, autumn afternoon. Sherlock took his phone from his pocket and read a text from Molly, punching the air with a silent cheer before hopping out of his armchair and beginning to collect his things.

Margaux tapped on the living room door with her knuckles and stepped inside carrying Flora on her hip. She looked tired and her skin was drained of colour as she forced a smile at her husband.

"Oh, hello there," said Sherlock.

"Can I talk to you for a minute?" she asked as she followed him around the flat.

"Can it wait? I was about to head down to Bart's; Molly's got me a cadaver to test my theory about blood pooling and-"

"Sherlock, I don't really think it can wait." She hoisted Flora up to stop her from slipping. "Can you take a rain check on the blood thing?"

He stopped in the kitchen and turned to look at her. "No, I can't take a 'rain check'," he began abrasively. "If you need to talk to me so desperately then you can just make it quick."

She pressed her tongue against the inside of her cheek. He immediately knew he had annoyed her. He rolled his eyes and began to speak, finding himself cut off before the first word had left his lips.

"I'm pregnant," she said bluntly. "Again."

His mouth turned dry, his brows coming together heavily over his eyes.

"But please, go and enjoy yourself," she continued sarcastically. "No rush. I'll still be pregnant later."

He didn't move. It was as if he had turned to stone; cemented to the ground, his eyes stuck to her.

"Pr... pregnant?" his voice was nothing more than a breath.

She nodded, moving Flora to her other hip.

"Are you sure?" he asked.

"The doctor did a test at my check up. I'm sure."

"I... H... how?"

"Well, when a man and a woman love each other-"

"No, obviously I know _how_ it happened _,_ I was there."

"Well then I don't know what to tell you, Sherlock. I was on the pill with Vaughan, we were only trying for a couple of months before Flora, and now this. Clearly your swimmers are just as defiant as you are."

He scoffed. "Don't blame this on me!"

"Who else do I blame it on? Three times you've done this to me now. I never had so much as a pregnancy scare before I met you. "

"Oh nice, I've 'done this to you', lovely way of putting it."

"Well it's true - it seems like all you need to do is _look_ at me and I end up pregnant."

He pulled up a chair at the kitchen table and sat down, letting out an exasperated breath. She sighed and walked over, leaning against the table beside him. Flora reached out her arms. He looked up at her and smiled, taking her and sitting her in his lap.

"Arguing isn't going to solve anything," said Margaux. "We need to talk about this like grown ups."

"You started it."

She gritted her teeth, trying her best to speak calmly. "Sherlock, if we do this again, there'd be fifteen months between Flora and this one. We'd basically have two babies, plus a seven-year-old. How do you feel about that?"

"I haven't known long enough to come to a conclusion about how I feel."

"Well if you can think it over while you're playing around in the morgue then I'd appreciate it."

He noticed her tone - still hostile, still offended. He watched as she stood up and took Flora back from him, preparing to leave.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I shouldn't have dismissed you when you wanted to talk."

"Mm, no, you shouldn't have," she replied, pausing for a while before speaking again. "I'm... sorry I said you had defiant sperm."

He tried to stifle a laugh, but it escaped through a snort. She laughed too, reaching out and running her hand through his hair.

*

Sherlock arrived home after nightfall. Doyle street was dark and quiet as a gentle, cool breeze brushed through the bushes that lined the driveway. He hadn't been able to focus; every thought, no matter how far removed, always seemed to travel back to the pregnancy. To the idea of having a third child. He tried to imagine himself with another baby and how he and Margaux would manage once they were outnumbered. It was daunting, even nerve-racking. But he never felt scared.

He went inside and climbed the stairs, pushing the bedroom door open slowly to stop it from creaking. He peered into the room to see Margaux sleeping on top of the sheets in the middle of their bed. She was lying on her side with her knees curled and her pyjama top rolled up as Flora lay beside her. They had fallen asleep while breastfeeding - something they did a lot.

Vaughan slept cuddled up against his mother's back. Sherlock wondered if Margaux had let him sleep there, or if he'd crept in after she fell asleep. Either way, he couldn't help but smile at the sight of the three of them together.

He walked around the bed and leaned over, kissing Margaux on the side of the head. She stirred and slowly opened her eyes, squinting as her eyes adjusted to the dark.

"Hi," she croaked. "You're back late."

"I went to see John after I finished at Bart's," he whispered back.

"Oh. You didn't tell him, did you? About..."

"No."

"Okay, good." She tried to move, suddenly feeling Vaughan against her back. She looked up at Sherlock and smiled sleepily. "I don't think there's any room for you in here tonight."

He laughed. "That's alright."

"Look, I know it's late but have you given any more thought to... well..."

"I think we should do it," he said.

The quickness of his response woke her fully. "You do?"

"Sure. Look, the baby can fit right here." He pointed to a small space between Margaux and Flora.

She giggled.

"But it's not my decision," he continued softly. "It's all well and good me saying I want to keep it, but it's not my body."

She reached out and touched his face, pushing out her bottom lip. "You're so nice."

"Just sometimes," he replied with a slight smile.

Margaux looked down at Flora before glancing over her shoulder to Vaughan. She turned back to Sherlock and took a deep breath.

"Yeah okay, let's do it."

"Really? Are you sure?"

"Yes, really, I am. One more baby. We can handle one more."

*

"Do twins run in either of your families?" asked the ultrasound tech.

Margaux stared at her with eyes as wide as saucers, while Sherlock remained preoccupied by his phone.

"I-I... erm, I don't think so but- but I can't be certain," she stammered as she lay on the examination bed, a transducer pressed to her stomach.

"No," said Sherlock plainly as he typed out a text. It was clear the question hadn't quite clicked yet.

"Well," the technician turned the screen around to Margaux, pointing at the image with the end of a pen. "See this here? That's a head, this is the spine and there's the legs."

She nodded. "Mhm..."

"And then here is... another head. Spine runs down this way and the legs are just there."

"Oh god," she breathed, turning her head to look at Sherlock.

He had dropped his phone in his lap, his mouth open, eyes fixed on the screen.

"Of course it's twins," said Margaux, almost laughing in disbelief. "Of course it bloody is."

"Twins," said Sherlock. "Two babies. Twins."

The technician gave a polite laugh. "It can be a shock when there's no history of multiples in the family."

"Two babies. Twins," he repeated.

...

"I suppose you're back to blaming _me_ for this?" he asked as they sat in the car in the hospital carpark.

" _Defiant,_ " she said sternly, pointing to his crotch.

He rolled his eyes and looked out the window, turning back at the sound of her butting her head repeatedly against the steering wheel.

"It's fine," she said chirpily. "It's fine. Look, we're comfortable financially, we have a house with plenty of space, we have friends and family for support. We're good, we're fine."

"Are you trying to convince me, or yourself?"

"Am I convincing you?"

"No."

"Yeah, not convincing myself either." She placed her hands on her three-month-old bump and sighed. "There's two of them in there. Sherlock, we made _two_ babies at once."

"Well I'm glad to see you understand the concept of twins, at least," he replied sarcastically.

She huffed. "Can you just stop being an arse for two minutes? I'm panicking."

"Alright, what do you want me to do?"

"Just... tell me we're going to be okay in that lovely, deep, reassuring voice you do." She looked at him. "This is... we can do this, can't we?"

She was being serious, the worry almost palpable in the air between them. He sighed and reached out, placing his palm over her stomach.

"We're going to be okay," he said, exactly the way she wanted.

*

John sat in his armchair in 221B reading a newspaper. He folded it and placed it on the table beside him when he heard footsteps travelling down the landing.

"Where've you been?" he asked. "I thought we agreed we were starting at ten?"

"Yeah sorry I'm late. Had somewhere to be," Sherlock replied as he sauntered into the flat, whipping off his scarf and sliding his coat down his arms.

"Right, okay. So what's the plan of action today then?"

"Not sure, haven't thought about it."

"You haven't thought about it? But you seemed really excited about this case."

"I was," he replied distractedly. "But my attention turned elsewhere."

John let out a laugh. "What could possible steal Sherlock Holmes' attention away from a _case_?"

"Mm, well, Margaux's pregnant," he said. "With twins."

John laughed, shaking his head at him and sinking back into his chair. Then he noticed Sherlock wasn't laughing. He leaned forward again.

"You're serious?"

"Of course I'm serious."

"But you just- you... you _just_ had Flora."

"I'm aware of when my daughter was born, thank you, John."

"No but, I mean, so soon?"

"Well it wasn't a conscious decision..."

"The pregnancy or the twins?"

"I suppose you could say both."

"Sherlock... You're going to have four kids. This time last year you only had one, next year you'll have four. Four!"

"What are you trying to achieve by emphasising the number?"

"It's a big number!"

"It's smaller than five."

"Sherlock."

"What, John? We didn't _choose_ to have two! It's not like you can give one back and say 'no, we're alright with just the one, thanks'..."

"What's all the shouting about?" asked Mrs Hudson as she rushed into the room.

"Perhaps you should sit down before I tell you," said Sherlock plainly.

*

The months passed quickly. As Margaux's stomach grew, the idea of what was about to happen became easier to manage. For the first time in his life, Sherlock had stopped taking clients. Instead, spending his time at home solving cases via letter and email.

It was killing him. His skin felt itchy with unrest, his muscles tense and restless as he sat around thinking about the thrill of a crime scene, the rush of an encounter with a dangerous person.

He snapped out of a daydream when he heard his wife calling his name. He walked into the kitchen and saw her standing there, breathless and flustered as she held onto her heavy, round stomach with one hand.

"What is it?" he asked.

She pointed to the floor. "I dropped my spoon." She was almost crying, as if something terrible had happened.

He walked over and picked it up, handing it to her with his best attempt at a sympathetic smile.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I just can't bend down at all."

"I know. Don't apologise."

She tried to hug him but the bump forced a wedge between them, stopping her from reaching her arms around his back. She got upset again.

"What's the matter now?" he asked.

"I'm so huge, I can't even hug my husband."

He let out a laugh before turning her around. He pressed his body against her back and wrapped his arms around her shoulders.

"There," he said softly.

She smiled and rested her head back against his chest.

"I love you," he said, pressing a kiss against the side of her head.

"I love you too," she replied. "But your children are making me miserable."

"The ones upstairs or the ones in there?" he moved his hands down and placed them on her bump.

"The ones in here."

"It won't be much longer."

"Have you thought any more about names?"

"For the babies?"

She turned around with a perplexed look on her face. "No, for me. I'm bored of 'Margaux' and fancy a change."

"That was sarcasm."

"Of course it was," she laughed. "Seriously, they're almost here and we need four names."

"You know we're only having _two_ , don't you?"

"Yes, but it could be two boys, two girls or one of each. So that's four names."

"Okay..."

"What about for a boy: Siger, after your father?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"Vaughan, Flora and... _Siger_?"

"Fine. How about naming a boy after you instead? William."

"If I liked the name William, I'd go by it myself. Not to mention Will the psychopath who tried to ruin our lives."

"Well _you_ suggest something then."

He pondered for a moment. "Ares."

" _Ares?"_

"It's the Greek god of war."

"Ah yes, let's name our child after chaos and violence."

"Well what about Casper?"

"The friendly ghost?"

"What?"

"Oh never mind."

They went back and forth for the rest of the night, picking holes in each other's suggestions and never agreeing on anything.

*

Sherlock climbed out of the taxi in front of his house, hoisting Flora onto his hip and kicking the car door shut with his foot. He was feeling triumphant after getting Vaughan to school on time. Somehow managing the early morning trip alone with his daughter in his arms.

Flora began to talk as he carried her up the driveway. Her words were staggered and unclear.

"I know," he said. "That's a very good point."

She continued to talk in her own indistinguishable language.

"Yes, darling, I agree," he said as he opened the front door.

"Sherlock?" Margaux called from the kitchen.

He rolled his eyes and looked down at his daughter. "Do you think she's dropped another spoon?"

She clapped her hands together and pointed to the kitchen. "Mama."

"Indeed."

He walked down the hall and into the kitchen where Margaux stood waiting.

"What do you need me to pick up?" he said as he looked down at the floor.

"Nothing," she replied tentatively. "I er, I think I might be in labour..."

His back straightened. "You- you..."

"I've been having pains."

"Pains?"

She nodded. "And they're getting worse."

"But they're not due for another month," he said. His voice was slightly panicked as he adjusted his hold on Flora.

"The doctor said twins often come early, don't you remember?"

"I probably wasn't listening."

She huffed. "Right well, I think we need to go to the hospital."

"Alright." He nodded, looking around for a moment. "Let me just... Let me call Mrs Hudson and see if she can babysit-"

"Sherlock, I don't think there's time." She bent forward, closing her eyes and breathing through the pain.

"Er, okay," he looked down at his daughter. "What should we do?"

She let out a squeal and tugged on his hair.

"No," he replied. "That won't work."

"Sherlock," said Margaux impatiently.

He hurried forward and took her hand to steady her, the realisation that this was actually happening finally beginning to set in. He felt his heart racing, but he didn't let her see his fear. Instead he continued to chat to Flora as they made their way down the hall.


	12. Additions • Two

Additions

Part Two

They arrived at the hospital in a fluster of chaos and panic. Margaux was struggling to walk, holding onto Sherlock as he carried Flora on his hip. They stepped through the main doors of the maternity department, the waiting room full, the walls plastered with brightly-coloured posters.

"I need to sit down," said Margaux. "Go and tell them I'm in labour."

"Isn't that obvious?"

She didn't reply, instead glaring up at him like she wanted to hurt him.

"Okay, alright just wait here," he said.

She lowered herself carefully into a seat, trying to breath through another contraction when her phone began to ring. She ignored it until it stopped. But moments later, it began to ring again.

She pulled it out of her pocket with a huff. "Hello?"

"Hi, Mrs Holmes, this is Miss Carter from the school. I'm just calling because no one's been to pick Vaughan up..."

She looked up at the clock on the wall, then across to Sherlock as he spoke with the receptionist.

"I'm sorry," she said. "My husband was supposed to send someone to collect him."

"Oh right. Are you able to come and get him now?"

Another contraction began to build. "No," she said bluntly, closing her eyes in pain. "I'm slightly preoccupied at the moment."

"Erm, well... what do you suggest we do-"

"I'll get someone to pick him up, just tell him not to worry."

"Oh he's not worried. He's actually taken it upon himself to reorganise the filing cabinet in my office..."

"Of course he has."

Sherlock walked over to her. He tried his best to smile reassuringly, but it came out more like a grimace. She put her phone away and looked up at him. His face dropped.

"Vaughan..." he said.

"Yeah, Vaughan."

"Oops."

She rolled her eyes before letting out a yelp. It was getting worse - the pain climbing up her back and wrapping around her thighs.

"Just... call... John," she struggled.

Suddenly, the doors opened and John rushed through, his eyes scanning the room before falling on them.

"Already did," Sherlock replied as he watched his friend hurry towards them.

"I'm here, I'm here," he said, before taking Flora in his arms and throwing her bag over his shoulder.

"John, change of plans," said Sherlock. "Turns out I momentarily forgot I had a son. You'll need to go and pick him up from school on your way back."

John's brows came together in confusion. But after a moment, he remembered he was talking to Sherlock. So instead he just nodded before turning to Margaux.

"How are you doing?"

"Wondering why the hell I'm being left to give birth in the waiting room," she replied.

"They're just getting you a wheelchair," said Sherlock before looking to John. "So dramatic."

She kicked him in the leg.

"Ow!"

"Good job they're bringing a wheelchair, isn't it."

*

She had noticed how twins made everyone treat her differently. No matter how healthy she was, how strong their heartbeats had been, the midwives still tiptoed around her, as if she were carrying two bombs that could explode at any moment.

They had strapped a monitor to her stomach and started her on the gas and air. Sherlock sat beside her stroking her hair as the doctors and midwives discussed C-sections and anaesthesia as if they weren't there.

Margaux turned to him as they left the room, her brow glistening with sweat. "Why are they talking about caesarians?"

He could tell she was scared, so he cleared his throat and calmed his voice. "It's just precautionary, I'm sure."

He wasn't sure. In fact, he had no idea. When Flora was born, he realised he had never felt a fear like it - having to stand by idle and trust that other people could deliver his daughter safely into the world. This time was no different. But he could never show Margaux that he was scared. Because whatever fear he felt, he knew she was feeling it ten times more.

The contractions had slowed down. She was frustrated and restless - the pain no longer coming in waves, but instead remaining there like a constant ache.

"I need to get things going again, will you walk with me?" she asked.

"Darling, I don't really think now is the time for a stroll..."

"I mean around the room, soft-arse."

"Oh. Okay then."

He held out his arm for her to cling on to as she waddled slowly around the small delivery room. After a few minutes, she stopped suddenly, digging her fingers into his arm.

"It's working?" he asked.

"Mhm," she nodded through the pain.

He turned to face her, taking her arms and lifting them onto his shoulders. She held onto him, letting her head drop as she began to sway from side-to-side.

"I hate this," she groaned.

"I know you do."

"Why can't you be pregnant instead?"

"Because I'm almost certain I'd be the most insufferable pregnant person anyone had ever met. And I don't think that'd be fair to anyone."

He felt her giggle softly.

"You're much stronger than me," he continued. "Which is why I gave you two this time."

"I knew you did it on purpose."

He chuckled.

She let out a cry, followed by a string of incoherent swear words.

"What? What's the matter?" he asked.

Her breathing became quick and shallow, her knees almost buckling as she clung to his shoulders.

"Shall I call someone?"

"Ow, ow, ow..."

"Margaux?"

"Baby. Coming."

His eyes widened, no longer able to disguise his panic. "Okay, alright, erm..." He reached over and pressed the call button.

In the last few months, Sherlock had been having the same recurring nightmare. They would be stuck somewhere; the house, the flat, in the car. Always alone. And he would be forced to deliver the babies himself. He would wake in a sweat, glancing over at his sleeping wife to reassure himself it had only been a dream. But this wasn't a dream. Though he still found himself wishing he could wake up from it.

A midwife walked into the room, laying eyes on the sight and immediately springing into action. She helped Margaux over to the bed as Sherlock stood by, frozen in place. Margaux let out a low, guttural noise as she clutched at the papery sheets, her ears ringing, mind going blank as the midwife instructed her to push. She reached out her hand blindly, unsure of where Sherlock was standing. But within seconds, she felt his fingers weave through hers and a small sense of comfort wash over her.

"That's it, keep going," said the midwife.

And as quickly as it had started, it was over. Sherlock squeezed Margaux's hand as her body began to shake - shivering with shock as the baby's cries filled the room.

The midwife placed the baby on her chest. "Here she is," she said as she tucked her beneath the fabric of her top.

"She..." Margaux muttered through chattering teeth.

"Mhm."

"It's a girl," she whispered to Sherlock who was still holding her hand.

He reached out and stroked the top of the baby's head. She was tiny. Smaller than he had ever imagined she could be.

"We need to check to make sure the next one is still head down," said the midwife as she pressed the call button.

Margaux nodded. "Okay." Suddenly remembering she would have to do this all over again, struggling to understand where she was going to find the strength.

They took the baby away as a doctor let herself into the room. Sherlock never took his eyes off his daughter, watching as she was weighed before being brought back to him wrapped in a blanket. He took her gently, realising he hadn't said a word since she had been born.

"She's beautiful, Margaux."

"Of course she is, she's mine." Even exhaustion couldn't halt her wit.

He let out a slight laugh as he looked down at the baby. "Hello," he whispered.

"Okay, baby number two is still head down," said the doctor. "It's just a waiting game now. But I imagine it won't be long."

"Trust me, there's no rush," said Margaux.

Fourteen minutes later, they found themselves back to where they had started. The screaming, the crying, the metallic sound of the gas and air being drawn from the tank.

"It's not fair, I've already done this," Margaux cried.

Sherlock refrained from making a sardonic remark, instead choosing to stroke her hair and place a kiss on the side of her head.

"Just one more push," said the midwife.

She dug her chin into her chest, squeezing her eyes shut and pushing hard. She gasped for breath and threw her head back, tears streaming from the corners of her eyes.

"Okay, Margaux, next contraction I want another big push."

"You keep saying one more but it's never just one more!"

"I know, I know. But I really mean it this time. One more."

Her stomach began to tighten again, the pain growing worse until it was unbearable. She did as she was told and pushed, as hard as she could, until she felt a familiar feeling. She'd done it, she knew even before she heard the cries.

She relaxed into the bed and turned her head towards Sherlock. She didn't think she had ever seen so much fear laced in a smile before. He looked terrified, but his eyes were creased and sparkly, his mouth curled upwards with pride.

"It's a boy," said the midwife.

*

Margaux sat up in bed with a baby in each arm. It was dark outside, the bedroom warm and cozy. Her hair had been brushed and tied up neatly, her skin moisturised, lips balmed. They had been home for a day, still floating inside a bubble where nothing felt real. She wanted to hang on to the feeling for as long as possible, before the reality of having four Holmes children finally settled in.

Sherlock returned from the bathroom. He was bare-chested, hair shaggy, wearing a pair of old pyjama bottoms. He rubbed his eyes as he walked back to the bed, letting out a yawn.

"I've not got the hang of holding them both yet," said Margaux.

He took the baby boy from her and leaned back, laying him face-down on his chest. "Do you want me to take her too?" he asked. "I've got room."

She chuckled before carefully laying their daughter next to her brother on Sherlock's chest. The two of them curled up against him as he raised his arms as if he were showing off a magic trick. "See, perfect," he said.

The twins reached out and locked their hands together. 

"Oh, look. They're holding hands," she said, jutting out her bottom lip.

Sherlock placed a hand on each of them, rubbing their backs gently. "They like to know the other is there."

Margaux shuffled closer to him, running her fingers through his hair. "Do you think we'll manage when John brings the kids back tomorrow?"

"No. But we knew we'd never manage anyway so it's fine."

She laughed. He turned to look at her.

"Although it goes without saying," he said. "I hope you know how much I admire you."

"You do?"

"Of course I do. Not only do you make being married to _me_ look easy, but you've just been through hell to bring these little things into the world."

She kissed him on the cheek and smiled. "I love you."

"I love you too." He paused. "And I promise to never get you pregnant again."

"Thank you."

Two Years Later

He lay on the floor of the living room, staring at the ceiling as the details of his current case circled his mind. He felt a shift beside him, turning his head to see that Vaughan had joined him, lying down with his face buried in his game. He returned to his thoughts when a blow to his stomach knocked the air from his chest. He looked down to see the twins climbing onto him, pulling at each other to try and get up first.

"Sadie, Arden," he said, trying to sound stern before pressing his finger to his lips and shushing. "Daddy's working."

"You sleeping," Flora giggled as she watched from the couch.

He looked up at her and narrowed his eyes. "Working."

"Sleeping," she repeated, causing the twins to begin shouting the word 'sleep' over and over again.

Margaux stepped in from the study. "What's all the noise?"

"Dad's trying to go into his mind palace but the twins think he's a climbing frame," said Vaughan, his eyes never leaving his game.

She looked down at her husband as he lay on the floor beneath them. "Mm. Well that's what he gets for lying on the floor."

"Nice to know there's some solidarity between the parents," said Sherlock as he grabbed both twins and began to wrestle them playfully.

"We're outnumbered," she replied. "Got to pick my battles."

"Outnumbered, pfft. Pretty soon we'll qualify as a daycare."

She laughed. Watching as they continued to play and laying a hand on the small, round bump beneath her jumper. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just wanted to leave this AN to say that at this point, the twins (& bump) only exist within this one shot. I'd be more than happy to write them into future stories if that's something you'd want to read! But please do let me know.


	13. Why Are You Here

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Requested on FFN: I'd love to see more about Margaux's home life growing up. Maybe an AU where they meet as teenagers and Sherlock tries to help her?

Why Are You Here

There was a nook in the museum where people rarely visited. Where the sounds of the crowds exploring the exhibits was nothing more than a hum, and if you closed your eyes or buried your face in a book, it was as if you were completely alone.

Most days, there would be a girl sitting in that nook. With her knees to her chest, writing in a journal or reading an old paperback book. She had long, dark hair and a lightly freckled nose, her skinny frame dressed in a school uniform that didn't fit her quite right.

One floor down, a group of students on a school trip followed their teacher around the displays. Yawning, joking amongst themselves, failing to pay attention. A boy rolled his eyes as he stood at the back of the group, his mind travelling elsewhere, ignoring his teacher and the lesson she was attempting to give.

The teacher ushered the group to the stairs, but as they began to descend, he decided to go up instead. As he wandered around, he found himself more interested in the people than the artefacts. He watched them interact, made judgements about them based on the way they walked or the stains on their shirts. His eyes fell on the girl in the nook and he began trying to assess her like he had with everyone else.

Purple shadows under her eyes - tired. Bony knees - malnourished. She never turned the page of her book - distracted. And she was biting the nail on her index finger - anxious.

He tried to get closer in an attempt to see what she was reading, to get a better look at her face and to see the school badge on her jumper. He slinked forward with his hands in his pockets, pretending to look around.

"Sherlock!?" A voice echoed across the museum floor.

It was his teacher. He looked at his watch - six whole minutes before she noticed he was missing. That was three minutes less than last time.

"Sherlock Holmes!"

She was searching for him across the crowded room. He walked up to the girl and sat beside her, picking up her school blazer that was sticking out of her bag. He draped it over his shoulders to hide his own uniform and plucked the book out of her hands, holding it up to his face.

She gave a bewildered stare, suddenly registering the woman walking around shouting. After a few minutes, the woman went back to the stairs and jogged up to the next floor. The boy lowered the book and handed it back to her before slipping off the blazer and returning it to her bag.

"So I take it you're Sherlock Holmes..." she said plainly.

"Whatever gave you that idea?" he replied.

She shook her head and laughed softly before opening the book and sifting through to find her page.

"You know you'll have to go back eventually," she said. "I don't think they're allowed to leave pupils behind on school trips."

"Where's _your_ class then?"

"I'm not on a trip."

He looked at her with a puzzled expression.

"I bunked..." she added.

"Oh. Why would someone skip school to come to a museum and read?"

"What are you? A wannabe truant officer or something?"

"I just like understanding things."

Suddenly, the teacher came bounding towards them.

"Sherlock Holmes! Come here this instant."

He rolled his eyes and the girl chuckled to herself.

"This is why I told your parents I didn't want to bring you on any more trips!"

"Trust me, I told my parents I didn't want to go on any more trips either."

She put her hands on her hips. "Up. Now. Come on, you've spoiled it for everyone."

He stood up reluctantly, looking back at the girl as he walked away.

"Bye, Sherlock Holmes," she said.

*

He couldn't get her out of his mind. He sat at the kitchen table as his mother berated him for sneaking off again. But all he could think about was the girl. Who was she? Why was she there? Why couldn't he read her like he did with everyone else?

"You're sixteen-years-old, Sherlock," his mother continued. "You shouldn't need your teacher holding your hand so you don't run off!"

"It was boring," he replied.

"School often is, I'm afraid. You just have to deal with it."

His older brother walked into the room, smirking to himself and thoroughly enjoying the sight of him being told off.

He tutted, folding his arms and shaking his head. "What are we going to do with you, little brother."

"Oh don't start, Mikey," said their mother.

"What are you doing here, Mycroft?" asked Sherlock with a sour expression. "Shouldn't you be off getting coffees or kissing your bosses arses?"

His mother gasped and hit him on the back of the head. "Sherlock!"

"Actually, I'm on an assignment," said Mycroft smugly. "See, I can be trusted to do things without supervision..."

"What's the assignment? Getting your mum to do your laundry?"

"Right, that's enough you two. Mycroft, stop winding your brother up. Sherlock, you're going back to the museum in your own time to finish that question sheet."

The pair of them rolled their eyes in perfect unison.

*

He saw here there again and found himself questioning if she were real. If it wasn't for the fact that she was in her own clothes now, he'd be sure he had imagined her. Her hair was pulled back into a ponytail and she was wearing a jumper that swallowed her small frame and pair of jeans that were ripped at the knees.

He walked over to her, eyeing her curiously. She looked up from her journal, a look of surprise on her face when she saw him standing there. She slid her pen behind her ear and sat up straight.

"Hi..." she said.

"Why are you here?" he asked bluntly.

Interacting with people had never been one of Sherlock's strong points; often getting him into trouble at school, labelled as the weirdo by his classmates or the 'difficult boy' by teachers.

"I'm sorry, am I not allowed?" she replied.

"I mean why do you come here."

"Because it's quiet. No one bothers you- well, clearly I was wrong about that one." She nodded towards him as he stood over her.

"I'm not trying to bother you, I just... I find it strange."

She closed her journal and let out an exaggerated sigh. "Alright, I've got nowhere else to be, might as well entertain the weird boy who won't leave me alone." She pressed her mouth into a straight smile and looked up at him. "What is it about me that's bothering you so much?"

"I want to know why you come here."

"Why do _you_ think I come here?"

"To escape."

"Well there you go, you didn't need me to tell you after all."

"What are you trying to escape?"

She huffed and gave a slight laugh. "If you don't mind, Sherlock, was it? I find it really creepy when strangers ask me personal questions."

This was what he'd been waiting for; something that gave her away. It was in the way her laugh didn't reach her eyes, and how her arms pulled her knees tighter to her chest.

"Is it physical or mental?" he asked abruptly.

"Sorry?"

"The abuse. Is it physical or mental?"

"I..." She stood up angrily and began packing her things away into her bag. "Thank you very much, for ruining the only safe space I had."

"I didn't mean to..."

"You can't just _ask_ someone you don't know if they're being abused."

"Duly noted."

She laughed in disbelief. "Are you... are you _real_? Are you an _actual_ person?"

"Sometimes I'm not sure. My mother's tried to have me evaluated but-"

"Leave me alone," she interrupted before storming off.

He sat alone for a few moments, trying to understand what he'd done wrong. When suddenly she returned, marching over and stopping in front of him.

"What about me made you think I was..."

"I've been practicing a skill I call deduction. I observe things about people to draw conclusions."

"And what exactly did you observe about me that screamed 'victim'?"

"Nothing," he replied, almost confused. "I didn't observe you as a victim, I observed you as a survivor."

She paused. "How?"

"Well... you're intelligent-"

"You've gathered I'm intelligent because you saw me reading a _book_?"

"In Romanian... when it's clearly not your first language."

She stood quietly, her eyes darting between him and the people around them.

"What do you want from me?"

"Nothing. I just wanted to know if my deductions were right."

"Oh. Well, there you go."

She began to walk away again.

"Do you need help?" he asked.

She turned around slowly. "What?"

"I gather from your reaction that my deductions were correct. So..."

She shook her head. "How _old_ are you?"

"Sixteen. Why?"

"Because you talk like an old man."

"Is that... supposed to be an insult or?"

She pushed her tongue into her cheek, averting her gaze to the floor.

"Do you need help?" he repeated.

"You can't help me."

"Why not?"

"Because you don't know me. You don't know anything about what I'm going through."

"Then tell me."

"Why would I tell a stranger about this?"

"I'm not a stranger to you - you know my name. And if you tell me yours, then you're not a stranger to me either."

She folded her arms, deliberating with herself for a moment. "Margaux."

"Margaux?"

She nodded.

"There," he said before gesturing to the space beside him.

She sat down. "Why are you being nice to me?"

"I didn't realise that's what I was doing."

"You're odd."

"So I've been told."

"What happens after this? I tell you my deepest secrets and then what? You get your gossip and you walk away?"

"I want to try and help you."

"But _why_?"

"I like to solve things."

"I don't think you can solve this."

"Try me."

She took a deep breath. "My school doesn't offer psychology as a subject, so I've been studying in my spare time - I'm pretty sure she's a narcissist."

"Your mother?"

"Mhm. When I was growing up it was insults, criticism, emotional blackmail, humiliation. It only got physical a handful of times. But she'd always tell me it was my fault - that I made her lash out." She rubbed her palm over the faint scar of a cigarette burn on her forearm. "But in the past few years, she's just started... disappearing. She goes away and leaves me by myself with nothing. I haven't seen her in about a month."

"Is that why you come here?"

"It's warm. There's light. Sometimes the guy from the cafe downstairs will give me a sandwich that's going out of date."

He eyed her scrawny frame. "Why hasn't anyone got involved? Your school? Family? Neighbours?"

"My school had their suspicions and reported it. Same with my neighbours. Nothing happened. Don't have any other family because she left when she was pregnant with me to be with my dad - then he left when I was little."

"So you're just... stuck."

"Yeah."

"You could leave."

She looked at him with a raised eyebrow. "I'm fifteen. I can't."

"You could if you were emancipated."

"What's that? Like... divorcing her?"

"I think so."

"And then what? Where would I go? I don't want to end up on the street."

They sat in silence for a while. Margaux pulled her ponytail over her shoulder, running her fingers through it absentmindedly. Sherlock stared off into space, his pale blue eyes flickering back and forth, as if there were a puzzle floating in the air in front of him.

"Ladies and gentlemen," a voice sounded over a tannoy. "We will be closing in ten minutes."

They looked at each other. Margaux gave a half-hearted smile, shrugging as she lifted her backpack onto her shoulder.

"Thanks for trying," she said. "The answer's Georgian, by the way."

"Hm?"

She gestured to the question sheet in his hand. "You've put the Edwardian period as the answer for number 7. It should be Georgian."

He looked down at it, realising his mistake, but when he looked up again, she was gone.

*

His father was reading a book by the fire, when suddenly, there was a sharp pain on the top of his head.

"Ow!"

He turned around to see Sherlock standing with a strand of hair between his finger and thumb.

"Jesus, lad! What was that for?"

"I'm doing a test."

"No need, you're definitely my son. Though I sometimes wonder..."

"No, not that kind of test. I stole some sulfuric acid from school. I'm going to-"

"Sherlock, we've had words about stealing chemicals."

He rolled his eyes and headed out to the kitchen.

Mrs Holmes was brewing tea while Mycroft sat at the table. Sherlock walked in, laying eyes on his brother and huffing.

"What are you still doing here?"

"Sherlock, do you have to be so rude?" said his mother. "We barely see him how he lives in London."

"It's an hour on the train. Not exactly the other side of globe."

"I told you, I've been given an assignment," said Mycroft.

"I'm starting to think you're using 'assignment' as a codeword for 'suspension'."

The phone began to ring. Mrs Holmes tutted at her sons and walked over to it, taking it off the receiver on the wall.

"Hello?" She whipped her head around to Sherlock with a furrowed brow. "Erm, yes, here's here. One moment."

She held out the phone. Sherlock stood up and walked over, equally as confused as his mother. No one ever called for him, except when he was in some sort of trouble.

"Who the hell wants to talk to you?" said Mycroft cynically.

He turned around sharply and shooed them out of the room.

"Hello?" he said as he pressed the phone to his ear.

"Sherlock?"

"Yes?"

"Oh thank god. I've called nearly every Holmes in the bloody phone book."

" _Margaux_? Why are you calling me?"

"She came home tonight." Her voice was wavy, as if she were trying to stop herself from crying. She sounded scared, almost frantic. "Things got really bad and I didn't know what else to do."

He rubbed his eyes with his fingers, leaning his elbow against the wall. "What happened?"

"She came home drunk and started having a go at me." She sniffed. "I stood up to her. I- I don't know, something about talking to you at the museum made me feel like I could actually stick up for myself... She pulled the mirror off the wall and threw it at me, told me I was the biggest mistake of her life."

"Where are you now?"

"In a phone box."

He could hear that she was crying, it made his chest ache.

"Where?"

...

"Mycroft, I need you to drive me somewhere."

Mycroft looked up from the couch with a raised eyebrow. A look of disdain on his face.

"Please," Sherlock added reluctantly.

He checked his watch. "Where do you need to go?"

"Can you just..." he gritted his teeth. "Please."

...

The sky was dark, the motorway peppered with car lights and cats-eyes lining the lanes. Sherlock was staring out the window, his arm resting on the door.

"Mycroft, you work for the government; do you know anything about emancipation?"

Mycroft relaxed his grip on the steering wheel, glancing across to his brother. "God, I know our parents can be irritating, Sherlock, but that's a bit extreme."

"You know I'm not talking about myself." He snarled. "I just wanted to know what to... do."

"Well," he sighed, thinking for a moment. "You'd file for it, then you'd either have to go to court or prove your reasons for it-"

"What about if the person's fifteen. If they're successfully emancipated, then what?"

"Well then they're emancipated."

"No I mean... can they get help? Money? A place to live?"

"I believe there's some programmes in place."

There was silence in the car for a moment before Mycroft turned to him again.

"What the hell have you got me driving to?"

*

A car shuddered to a stop on the side of the road, its headlights dimming as the passenger door opened. Margaux sat on a brick wall beside the phone box, rubbing her arms to keep warm.

Sherlock walked around the car and stepped up onto the kerb. "Margaux?"

She looked up at him. "I'm really sorry," she said quickly.

He bent over, squinting in the dark to get a look at her face. Blood trailed from her hairline down her forehead, dried into her skin. She wasn't wearing a coat, no bags, trainers unlaced. She had ran.

"Where's your house?" he asked bluntly.

"Why? I'm not going-"

"No, _I_ am."

Her body tensed. "No. No you're not. Sherlock you're not."

"She's right, you're not," said Mycroft as he climbed out of the car. "What a ridiculous suggestion."

"That woman can't get away with this." He pointed at Margaux.

"And what are you going to do? A sixteen year old kid, turning up wagging his finger and telling her off?"

"So what am I supposed to do? Just let her go back?"

Mycroft sighed and gestured to the car. "Come on."

Neither of them moved. He turned around, looking at them impatiently.

"Both of you, now."

Margaux rose to her feet, glancing nervously between Sherlock and the car. "So I'm just going to get in a car with two strange boys, is that really what my life's come to?"

Mycroft walked around to the boot. He opened it and pulled out a tyre lever before walking over and handing it to her.

"Here," he said with a sarcastic smile. "You can hold this while we drive if you like."

*

The morning sun began to rise, shining softly through the windows of the Holmes house. Mrs Holmes climbed the stairs and walked down the hall to Sherlock's room, tapping her knuckles against the door before letting herself in.

"Sherlock, you're going to be late for scho-"

She stopped in the doorway when she saw a young girl sleeping in her son's bed. She backed out quietly, her face etched with confusion when she turned to see him on the landing behind her.

"W-what..." she stammered.

"It's not what it looks like," he replied.

"You better hope not," she hissed. "Sherlock, explain, now."

"She's in trouble. Mycroft's helping me get her out."

"How did you meet- wait, _Mycroft's_ helping you?"

"Yes."

"Well, my goodness, if only I knew all it took to bring you two together was a strange girl."

The door opened slowly. Margaux peered out, almost recoiling when she saw Sherlock's mother with her hands on her hips.

Mrs Holmes turned around, her bright blue eyes widening when she saw the bruises on her face. "Oh dear," she said softly.

Sherlock shuffled awkwardly on his feet. "Mum, please..."

"Sweetheart, what happened to you?"

He watched in shock as his mother reached out, taking Margaux's face in her hands.

"It's looks worse than it is," Margaux replied politely.

"Come downstairs, we'll get you something to eat and have a look at that."

He watched as they linked arms and made their way downstairs together. Part of him was horrified that his mother had interjected in his mission to save her. Another felt comfort in the idea that he was succeeding. She was safe, and she would never have to go back.


	14. Mascara

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Requested on Wattpad: So we all know that there are a couple of pictures out in the internet with ben dressed as a woman, and i would really want to see how margaux would have to deal with sherlock dressed as a lady.

Mascara

There was a bustling downstairs. The sounds of things being knocked over, drawers being opened and closed. Margaux sat bolt upright in bed, her eyes half-closed, hair tangled and falling over her face. She turned to the other side of the bed, expecting Sherlock to be asleep beside her, but he wasn't there. She checked the time. 2am.

"What the hell is he doing?" she mumbled to herself as she climbed out of bed and pulled on a T-shirt that was hanging over a chair.

She made her way downstairs in the dark, listening as the noises continued in the kitchen. But when she got down the hall and stepped into the room, she felt her stomach turn in fear.

Through the darkness, she saw a woman rummaging through the cupboards. She was hunched over, grumbling and grunting as she poked around the kitchen, completely unaware that she was being watched.

For Margaux, survival mode kicked in. Her children were sleeping upstairs and she was prepared to do whatever it took to protect them. She grabbed a large golfing umbrella that was hanging on the doorknob, arming herself with it like a baseball bat. She took a step forward, her bare feet silent on the cold tiles, before plucking up the courage to speak.

"Get out of my house," she said.

She had wanted to sound tough and scary, but her voice was shaky, breaking in places it shouldn't.

The woman stopped what she was doing and stood upright. "What?"

Margaux loosened her grip on the umbrella, her brows stitching together over her tired eyes.

"Sherlock?"

The figure turned around, revealing a familiar face. She wondered if this was real, if the noises from downstairs had woken her, but she had only dreamed getting out of bed. Standing in front of her was her husband, in a black cocktail dress and a long blonde wig.

"Yes?" he replied plainly, as if it was all completely normal.

"Are you..." she put the umbrella down and walked to the light switch. "What the hell are you wearing?"

The room flooded with light, making both of them squint as their eyes adjusted. She wasn't imagining it. Sherlock really was there, in the middle of their kitchen at 2am, hands on hips, dressed from head-to-toe as a woman.

"It's a long story," he replied.

"Mm, no. That's not going to work on me. You need to explain." she glanced down at his legs. "Are those tights!?"

"Well I wasn't going to go to the trouble of shaving my legs."

She walked towards him. The closer she got, the more she noticed. He was wearing makeup; blush, lipstick, mascara.

"Bloody hell, your lashes are longer than mine," she said as she reached out and touched his face. "Is that my lipstick?"

He rolled his eyes and pulled off the wig to reveal his curls, damp with sweat and flattened to his head. He ruffled his hands through them as he walked away from her, hobbling in a pair of high heels.

She turned around, watching as he kicked off the shoes. "Seriously, you need to explain," she chuckled.

"We were trying to get information about an underground crime syndicate."

"Was the syndicate in the Moulin Rouge?"

He gave a sarcastic laugh. "No. Apparently it's operating from a drag bar in Soho."

"And you couldn't have just gone as regular punters?"

"No. We needed to blend in."

"Sounds like you just really wanted to get dolled up if you ask me."

"Very funny. It was hell. John did nothing but complain the whole time."

Her mouth fell open. "John dressed up too!?"

"Yes?"

"Fantastic. Did you get pictures?"

"Of course we didn't." He rubbed his hand on his cheek, looking down at his fingers with a grimace. "How do I get this stuff off?"

She ran into the downstairs toilet and returned with a bottle of cleanser and a packet of cotton pads. They sat together at the kitchen island as she carefully swept the pads over his face.

"Who did this?" she asked.

"We did each other's."

She felt an internal squeal at the thought of the two of them sitting together doing each other's makeup. Although it had probably been more of an argument as they half-heartedly slapped the products on.

"Y'know, I've always thought you were a very handsome man. But as a woman... not so much."

"John said I looked like a 'Veronica', whatever that means."

She snorted.

"Anyway, we didn't get the information we needed so it was a wasted night."

"Not true, you've thoroughly entertained _me_."

"We're trying again tomorrow."

"You're dressing up again?"

He nodded, running his fingers over his freshly cleansed skin.

She looked down at the shiny black material hugging his body.

He curled his lip in disdain. "Oh god, Margaux, surely this isn't turning you on..."

"No." She laughed. "I'll admit, usually you only have to breathe and I find you sexy. But this number just isn't doing it for me."

She hooked her finger into the top of the dress, pulling it back and peaking down at his bare chest. He slapped her hand away, like a woman batting off an unwanted touch.

"I just wanted to see if you were wearing a bra too," she said.

"Well I'm not. I tried one of yours earlier but it didn't fit around my back."

She giggled, stopping suddenly and looking up at him. "Wait, what?"

*

The next evening came around quickly. The children were eating dinner with Mrs Hudson downstairs, the sound of their chattering echoing in the hall. Sherlock sat at the dining table in 221B with his arms folded across his chest. Margaux sat on the table in front of him, dusting powder over his cheeks and grinning, chuckling to herself as she worked.

"What?" asked Sherlock.

"You do sort of look like a Veronica."

He rolled his eyes.

"I never thought there'd come a day when I'd be putting a full face of makeup on you," she said.

"Surprisingly, I never expected it either."

"Quite enjoying it though."

"I'm sure you are."

Vaughan appeared in the doorway. He stopped and looked at his father for a moment before continuing his walk into the kitchen without so much as a question. As if it were a completely normal sight. He rummaged through a bag and pulled out his games console as John made his way into the flat. He was grumbly, unamused, carrying a wig in his clenched fist.

"I'm not doing this again," he said. "I've done a lot of stuff in the name of cases, Sherlock; crawled through rubbish, worn ridiculous costumes, pretended to be your bloody boyfriend, but this..."

Margaux eyed the wig. It was a deep auburn colour, shiny with a slight curl.

"I never took you for a red head, John," she said.

He pointed at her and turned to Sherlock. "See what I mean? Even your wife's taking the piss out of me."

"Sounds like someone's masculinity's a bit fragile," she replied.

"Oh no, I've got no problem with _that_. It's these I have a problem with." He held up his other hand, revealing a pair of high heeled shoes. "It's like putting your feet in a bloody knife block."

"We can't turn up there looking like ourselves," said Sherlock. "We'll be recognised."

"So give me a fake moustache."

"And how do you suppose we get backstage and into the dressing rooms with a fake moustache?"

"Oh, because _this_ is better!?" he tugged the wig onto his head.

Vaughan stepped in from the kitchen and looked up at him. "You look like my teacher Miss Farrell," he said plainly before disappearing back downstairs.

"Brilliant," said John.

Margaux laughed. "If you really don't want to do it, I could go instead."

Both men shook their heads at the same time.

"No," said Sherlock. "If we're right about the syndicate then things could get dangerous."

"And? I spend most days cooped up in an interrogation room with rapists and murderers."

*

She parked the car down an alley at the back of the club, the sound of loud music thumping in the distance.

"Is that how they're getting in and out?" she asked as she pointed to a large metal door on the side of the building.

He didn't answer.

"Sherlock, is that where we need to get to?"

Still no answer. She turned to him as he sat in the passenger seat, fumbling with stuffing of his fake breasts.

"If only Greg were here," she said. "This would make his day. Probably his year."

"Shush," he said as he lay his hand on the door handle. "Let's just do this. We go in, you keep watch and I'll make my way backstage."

"What if they get suspicious of you?"

"Then I take what information I can and we run."

She laughed. "You think you'll be running in those?" She gestured to the heels on his feet.

"I've been wearing these for one day and I can run better in them than you can walk."

She hit him on the arm. He glanced at her from the corner of his eye and smirked.

"Come on then, Veronica," she said as she climbed out of the car.

They pushed through the crowds in the busy nightclub. Margaux watched as Sherlock disappeared towards the back before making her way to the bar. She sat down and ordered a drink, keeping her eyes on the people around her.

As her drink arrived, she saw him slip through the door near the stage. She took a deep breath and began to wait.

"Aren't you a gorgeous little thing," a voice shouted over the music.

She turned to see a drag queen holding a tray of shots. She had large, sparkling earrings and a wig perfectly styled into a old-fashioned beehive.

"Me?" Margaux asked.

The queen nodded. "Are you all by yourself?"

"I'm waiting for someone."

"Oh well here." she handed her a shot from the tray. "On the house because I like your outfit."

She laughed. "Thank you."

She wasn't sure how it happened, but she found herself deep in conversation with the queen - laughing, joking, sharing stories about their husbands. Sherlock had told her to keep watch, but she hadn't looked around in at least fifteen minutes. The queen waved down her friend from across the room; she was tall and heavily tattooed with a perfectly painted face. She sauntered over and stopped beside them.

"Look at the size of that," the queen said to her friend as she held up Margaux's hand, her wedding and engagement rings glittering in the lights.

"Bloody hell!" the other queen replied. "You must be good in bed."

Margaux spluttered out a laugh.

"What's he like?" she asked. "I bet he's good looking."

"Well he's-"

A loud bang startled the entire club. 

"Oh god," Margaux mumbled to herself as she climbed down from the barstool to try and get a better look.

There was another bang, followed by the sound of smashing glass and panicked shouting. Suddenly, the door at the back swung open as a brawl broke out near the stage. Margaux looked at the two queens beside her as they stared in horror.

"What's going on!?" one of them shouted.

"That'll be my hubby," she replied sarcastically.

Sherlock rushed through the crowd towards them. He wasn't joking when he said he'd be able to run. He grabbed Margaux by the waist and bolted for the door with her in his arms, a group of men charging after them with guns in hand.

She clung to his shoulders as he ran. "What happened!?"

"You said you'd keep watch!" He threw her into the car and ran around to the passenger side. "Drive!"

She turned the key in the ignition with a shaking hand before screeching away from the club and turning into the traffic.

There was silence besides their heavy breathing as she clung to the steering wheel, her eyes flitting between the road and the rear view mirror. Sherlock pulled off the wig and wiped the lipstick from his mouth with the back of his hand.

"I'm guessing you got caught," she said.

"What gave you that idea?"

They glanced at each other and began to laugh.

*

"I'll deliver the evidence to Lestrade tomorrow," said Sherlock as he walked up the driveway.

"Will you be mentioning the part where you wore a dress?" Margaux replied.

He opened the front door and stepped aside for her to enter first. "If you dare mention this to him, I'll file for divorce."

She smirked as she walked into the hall and kicked off her shoes. "Fine."

"It doesn't matter how I got it. The point is, I now have proof that the crime syndicate exists. I was right, he was wrong, all is right with the world again."

She turned around to him and let out a long, exaggerated sigh. "Oh the lengths Sherlock Holmes will go to just to prove he's right. It's quite astounding."

He watched as she began to climb the stairs. "Where are you going?"

"To bed... Are you coming?"

He followed her upstairs and into their room. Margaux flicked on her bedside lamp and began to undress as Sherlock stood awkwardly in the middle of the room. She folded her dress and lay it over the chair before disappearing into the bathroom and returning with a packet of wipes.

"Here," she said, handing him one.

He took it and began scrubbing his face, relieved to be free of the heaviness coating his skin. Margaux giggled as they stood wiping away their makeup together - a moment she never could have imagined until tonight.

"Can you help me out of this?" he asked as he turned away from her.

She stepped forward and undid the clasp at the top of the dress before sliding down the zip.

"Usually it's _you_ doing this to me," she said, watching as he tugged the straps off his broad shoulders.

He turned back around and looked down at her. "I think I much prefer it that way."


	15. Night In

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Requested on Wattpad: could you make a fluffy oneshot of sherlock and margaux where the kids can be at John's house where he struggles to babysit them and here sherlock and margaux have a night in.

Night In

"How do I look?" asked John, holding his arms out and turning around slowly.

Rosie was sitting on the couch, laughing as she watched her father twirl in the middle of the living room. "You look nice."

"Thanks, love." He kissed her on the side of the head. "Have you decided what you're taking with you to auntie Molly's?"

She nodded and pointed to her backpack leaning against the leg of the coffee table.

"Organised. I like it," he replied.

There was a knock at the door.

John looked down at his watch. "She's early. What do I do?"

Rosie rolled her eyes and stood up. She made her way to the door and peered through the letter box. "No way," she giggled.

"What? What is it?"

She stretched up on her tip toes and undid the latch, stepping aside as a sea of dark hair and blue eyes flooded through the door. She looked up to her father and grinned. His face, however, did not look so amused.

"Sherlock?" said John. "What's the matter? What're you doing here?"

"I was rather hoping you'd be willing to babysit," he replied.

John stared at him in disbelief as he stood calmly, holding his youngest son in his arms while the other children dispersed into the house.

"Babysitting is something you arrange in advance, Sherlock. You don't just turn up on people's doorsteps. What if they have plans?"

"Do you have plans?"

"Actually, I-"

Sherlock hooked the large, heavy overnight bag on John's shoulder and handed him the baby. "I really must go. Sadie tends to get upset if she sees me leaving, then that sets Arden off because you know... twins and all that."

"Sherlock!"

He pinched his son's cheek and disappeared through the front door, like smoke escaping through an open window.

"I..." John stood for a moment in shock, before turning and laying eyes on the chaos around him.

He put down the heavy bag and walked over to the couch where Rosie and Vaughan sat talking excitedly. He sat the baby down between them, pulled out his phone and disappeared into another room.

"Molly, hi," he said, covering his other ear to drown out the noise. "You don't fancy watching an extra five kids tonight, do you?" He rubbed his forehead as he listened to her anxious reply. "Nope, no. Didn't think so," he sighed.

*

Margaux stepped through the front door, her brows immediately falling heavy over her eyes with suspicion. She unwrapped her scarf and hung it up, glancing up the stairs and making extra noise taking off her shoes, but still, no one came running.

"Hello?" she called out.

Sherlock appeared at the end of the hall, leaning against the doorframe of the kitchen.

"Why's it so quiet?" she asked.

"I got rid of the children," he replied proudly.

"Got rid of? Oh god, please elaborate."

"John is babysitting."

 _"All_ of them?"

"Mhm."

She sighed. "How much did you pay him?"

"What do you mean 'pay him'? He's uncle John, jumped at the chance to spend time with his nieces and nephews..."

"You dumped them and ran, didn't you?"

"I may have."

She laughed and reached for her bag. "I'll give him a call."

"No, no no no," Sherlock whispered quickly, rushing down the hall towards her. "Don't do that."

"Why?"

"Because I've planned for us to spend the evening together."

"Why?" she asked again, her tone rich with skepticism.

"Well... You recently said you were feeling overwhelmed. And if I'm correct, as your husband, that means it's my job to make you feel... _whelmed_?"

"Mm don't think that's the right word."

"No, doesn't quite sound right, does it." He shook his head. "Stop distracting me. What I'm saying is I would like to have a... night in... with you."

She smiled. "What's got into you? I usually have to bribe you just to sit down and watch TV."

"Well, I like to examine my own behaviour every so often to make sure I'm performing adequately in our marriage."

"You give yourself husband M.O.Ts?"

He shrugged.

She placed a hand on her chest. "That is so ridiculously sweet."

He grimaced. "You know I hate that word."

"Maybe I should be giving myself wife M.O.Ts too." She thought about it for a moment. "Then again, I've given birth to five kids so I think I'm off the hook."

"Surely it's not fair that you get to use that as an excuse for everything?"

"Not fair? Sherlock, in the ten years since we first slept together, I've been pregnant _four_ times. That's... just under three and a half years of my life I've spent growing humans."

"That was impressively quick maths."

She rolled her eyes.

He walked up to her and placed his hands on her shoulders. "Will you please just let me indulge you tonight?"

"What did you have in mind?"

"Dinner... Television... I thought you might appreciate an uninterrupted bath."

"Will you get in it with me?"

He groaned. "Fine."

She smiled. "What are you after?"

"What do you mean?"

"Are you trying to put me in a nice mood so I don't get angry about something you've done?"

"No!" He let out an offended laugh. "I know it's hard to believe, but sometimes I just want to be nice."

"Mm, you're right, that _is_ hard to believe." 

*

There was a knock at the door. John approached it quickly, a hopeful glint in his eye that his friend may have returned, that this was all an experiment to see how he'd react, or maybe Margaux had found out and demanded he come and collect their children.

He opened the door and his face dropped. Rose was standing on the step, auburn hair styled into smooth waves, fancy skirt poking out the bottom of her coat.

They had dated a few years before, deciding to part ways after Molly and Arthur's wedding. But being the best friends of Sherlock and Margaux Holmes meant that they were never far from one another - always crossing paths and finding themselves in each other's company. Rose reminded him of Mary in some ways, of Margaux in others. She was headstrong yet laid back, spirited yet realistic, she never expected anything from him besides what he was willing to give. And finally, after being a widower for so long, he was ready to give more.

She peered over his shoulder into the house, at the lively ruckus of children.

"Hello, is this the John Watson private nursery?" she asked sarcastically.

He sighed. "I know, I know. Sorry. He left before I got the chance to tell him I had plans."

"You really think Shuttlecock wouldn't have left them anyway? Even if you told him?" 

"True." He stepped aside and let her into the house.

In the living room, Rosie and Vaughan were challenging each other on the PlayStation, arguing with one another and trying to knock the controllers out of each other's hands.

"Auntie Rose!" Flora shouted, running across the room with her arms outstretched.

Rose bent down and hugged her tight, scanning the room with her eyes.

"We're three kids short," she said.

"The twins are playing in the other room," John replied.

"And Milo?"

He opened his mouth and took a breath as if he were about to speak, but stopped suddenly, looking around in confusion. "I... have no idea."

"How do you lose a baby?"

"I haven't _lost_ him..."

"Mm."

He huffed and stepped into the middle of the room. "Vaughan, where's your brother?"

"Daddy move!" Rosie shouted, batting her arm at him.

John turned around to see he was standing in the way of the television. He rolled his eyes and stepped aside. "Vee. Your brother?"

"Which one?" Vaughan replied, his eyes never leaving the screen.

"The littlest one."

There was a loud smash that made John and Rose jump in fright. They ran into the kitchen to find one-year-old Milo Holmes smiling contently as he ate something off his fingers, a smashed jar and a puddle of jam on the floor beside him.

"Jesus Christ!" John shouted, rushing over and scooping him up off the floor. "How did you reach that?"

Rose cleared her throat. He turned to see her nodding towards the kitchen drawers, each one pulled out a different amount like a set of stairs leading up to the counter.

"I swear these kids were created in a lab," said John.

*

Margaux walked into the kitchen, standing quietly for a moment and watching as Sherlock placed the dirty dishes in the sink. It had always been one of her favourite things to do; to watch him perform simple, mundane domestic tasks. Like a reminder that he was human, that he could be soft and beautifully ordinary, just like anyone else.

He rolled up the sleeves of his shirt, slipped off his wedding ring and placed it on the windowsill. 

"Wow, you're even doing the dishes," said Margaux. "You're going all out tonight."

He glanced over his shoulder at her. "I thought it only fair. You did them yesterday."

"And the day before that, and the day before-"

"Yes, yes, alright I get it."

She laughed as she walked across the kitchen, reaching up and opening the cupboard. "Do you think I could have another drink without it affecting my breastmilk?"

"Why do you assume I'd know that?"

"Because you research everything."

He shook the water from his hands and dried them on a tea towel before stepping up behind her and wrapping his arms around her waist. "Yes you can have another one," he mumbled, kissing the side of her head.

She giggled and leaned back against him. "See, it's handy being married to the human version of Google sometimes."

"Or perhaps five children later, I've just learned a thing or two."

"Do you miss them when they're not here?" she asked as she spun around to face him.

"Of course I do. Though, unfortunately, I find myself missing _you_ when they _are_ here."

She rested her palms flat on his chest, thinking for a moment before speaking again. "Do you realise that it's never been just the two of us? Like... there's never been a time in our relationship before children."

"Are you saying you don't like it when it's just the two of us?"

"No! I do. I really do. I just... I wish I knew what it was like to have a night alone with you without worrying."

"There's no need to worry, they're okay."

"I'm not worried about them. I'm worried about John."

He chuckled, stroking the hair out of her face and leaning down to kiss her. "Darling, there is more to us," he said against her lips. "Than our children."

"God, you're right." She closed her eyes and sighed. "You're right, I haven't stopped talking about them once, have I."

He kissed her again before reaching over her head and taking down a bottle from the cupboard. "Pour yourself that drink."

She stood holding the bottle in her hands as he turned and made his way to the door.

"Put your wedding ring back on," she replied quickly.

He turned sharply, lifting it off the windowsill and sliding it onto his finger. He held up his hand as if to prove he was wearing it. She smirked, biting her lip as she watched him walk away.

...

Steam filled the bathroom like a thick fog. Margaux liked her baths hot, so hot that condensation dropped down the window and made the tiles glisten.

She had packed away the children's bath toys, replaced the multicoloured bottles of kids shampoo with candles and essential oils. She felt strange closing the door, struggling to remember the last time she had bathed in peace.

Sherlock sat opposite her, his hair slicked back out of his face, arms resting on the rims.

"This reminds me of our honeymoon," said Margaux as she reached for her glass.

"Mm," he agreed, his eyes trailing the bubbles covering her body.

"Don't be getting any ideas," she said. "This bath's not as big as the one in Paris. Don't think we'd manage it."

"We've managed it in more challenging places than this. The desk in the study was quite an impressive feat."

She took a sip of her drink and relaxed into the hot water. "Which time?"

He smirked.

"This is nice," she sighed happily. "Thank you, Sherlock. I really did need this."

"I know you did. It's important to make time for each other - remind ourselves of why we fell in love."

She raised an eyebrow. "What relationship book did you get that from?"

"My father..."

"You go to your dad for relationship advice?"

"Sometimes. Mostly his advice is unsolicited. Though it's still worthy of listening, I've found."

She smiled.

"With a relationship as strong theirs, I suppose it would be foolish not to take note," he said.

"You've come such a long way from the man who kept Vaughan and I a secret from them."

"I never kept you a secret." He raised his finger. "It simply never came up in conversation."

"Sure," she replied sarcastically.

He grabbed her ankle and tugged on it, pulling her under the water. She disappeared for a moment before surfacing again, sitting up and gasping as she wiped the water from her eyes.

"You bastard!"

He was grinning. "I'd say I'm sorry, but I'm not. That was rather amusing."

"Amusing, was it?" she rose onto her knees and climbed on top of him, water spilling over the edge of the bath.

"Mhm," he replied as their faces grew closer.

He tilted his head, ready for their lips to meet as he felt her hand slip down his side. But instead of kissing him, she pulled the plug from underneath him.

"We'll see about that," she said, climbing out of the bath and wrapping herself with a towel.

*

John sat in the living room as Flora, Sadie and Arden bounced around him. Although there was fifteen months between them, people would always mistake them for triplets. Flora was dainty, small for her age. While the twins were clever and cunning, their speech more advanced than the average three-year-old.

The three of them were climbing and jumping on John, chanting the word 'camping' over and over again.

"What do you mean camping?" He was growing tired, his eyelids heavy, his ears permanently ringing.

"They want to sleep in the living room," said Vaughan. "Dad does it with them."

"Right well I'm not your dad and quite frankly I'd like to wring his neck right now so no. Not happening." He began trying to scoop the kids up in his arms. "Come on, sleepover in Rosie's room."

"No!" the children screamed together, giggling as if it were a game.

"Sssshhhh! Your baby brother is sleeping."

"Oh don't worry about Milo. He sleeps like a rock," said Vaughan. "Dad accidentally made the kitchen explode once and he slept right through it."

"How did he make the-"

"Chemicals."

"Ah." He turned back to the children. "Well even still, it's bedtime now so we need to use our quiet, sleepy voices, okay?"

"Unky John tired," said Flora.

"Yes. Uncle John is very tired, and also completely dumbfounded that you're not."

"We never sleep!" Arden roared, as if he were a monster, before diving off the couch and landing on top of Sadie.

John stopped breathing for a moment. It looked like it hurt, and a trip to A&E was the last thing he needed. But instead of tears, the twins began to laugh and play-fight on the ground.

Rose appeared in the doorway. "I'm going to go," she said softly.

John turned to look at her, a desperate panic on his face. "You're going?"

"Yeah, gonna go home and print off some information about contraception, post it through Marg's door."

He laughed. "Listen, Rose, I'm sorry about tonight."

"Don't be." She smiled. "I think it's really lovely that you'd do this; it shows what kind of friend you are." She walked up to him and placed a hand on his arm. "I really would stay if I didn't have kids of my own at home."

He nodded.

"Good luck."

"Yeah, I think I'm going to need more than luck."

*

He found her in the bedroom, sitting at the dressing table brushing through her wet hair. She glanced at him in the reflection of the mirror, at the towel wrapped around his waist, the droplets tricking down his chest.

She smiled to herself and pretended to ignore him, something she knew he couldn't bear. He walked up behind her, tangling his fingers in her hair and tilting her head back to look up at him.

"You're not actually upset with me, are you?" he asked.

"Of course I'm not," she laughed. "I _am_ going to make you pay for almost drowning me though."

"Almost drowning you," he scoffed, letting go of her hair and wandering across the room to his dresser.

She ran the brush through her hair again, smoothing out the tangles his fingers had left behind.

"So what do you have in mind?" he asked.

"Hm?"

"How are you going to make me 'pay'?"

"Haven't decided yet." She stood up and slipped off her dressing gown, revealing a delicate, black lingerie set. "I was thinking I might just walk around in this for the rest of the night." She shrugged.

"I don't understand. How would that be a punishment to _me_?"

"Oh, because you won't be allowed to touch me." She smiled.

"That's evil."

"Should be easy for you. I mean, you managed it for years before we got together."

"With great difficultly," he replied quietly, his voice deep and low as he walked towards her.

She let him get close before taking a step back, holding up her finger and shaking her head. "No touching," she whispered.

He inhaled slowly.

"Let's go and watch TV," she said.

"Really, Margaux? You're _really_ going to sit in front of the television like that?"

She looked down at herself, pretending to be oblivious. "What's wrong with it?"

He rolled his eyes. He should have known by now that there was no outwitting his wife. She was so soft with their children, so kind and forgiving with him; sometimes he forgot there was a fire inside her too.

*

The kids were asleep. Finally.

John's eyes were closing, like sleep was tugging on his eyelids, forcing them shut. He pressed a button on the TV remote to check the time, expecting the early hours of the morning to have crept in quickly. He blinked, sitting forward to make sure he was seeing it right: 10.30pm. He groaned.

He was annoyed with Sherlock. But there was another feeling niggling away in the back of his mind - admiration. As if he'd seen a glimpse into his friend's life and suddenly wondered how he managed to make it look so easy.

*

The living room was warm and cozy. Sherlock sat on one end of the couch, his gaze flitting every few minutes to Margaux who sat in her black lace underwear, one leg crossed over the other, eyes glued to the game show on the television.

 _'What is the reaction between iron and copper sulphate?'_ said the host.

"Oxidation-reduction," Sherlock answered quickly.

 _'Pass,'_ said the woman on the screen.

 _'Oxidation-reduction,'_ the host replied.

Margaux bit the inside of her cheek, glaring at Sherlock from across the couch.

"I used to watch quiz shows with my mother growing up," he said.

"You also have a degree in chemistry."

_'Who wrote Metamorphosis?'_

"Kafka."

"Kafka!" Margaux shouted. But Sherlock got there first.

He gave a smug grin.

She huffed and stood up, making her way to the door.

"Where are you going?" he asked.

"To get a drink."

"You probably shouldn't have another."

"A non-alcoholic drink. Do you want one?"

"Oh. No, I'm fine."

She left for the kitchen, poured herself a glass of water and made her way back down the hall. It was getting chilly, but she was too stubborn to cover herself up. Instead she took a moment to shiver away the goosebumps before pushing open the living room door.

Her mouth fell open when she entered the room. Sherlock was in the exact same place she'd left him, except now, his clothes were in a heap on the floor. He was sitting on the couch in his underwear calling out the answers to the quiz show.

"Sherlock," she stifled a laugh.

"What?" He looked down at himself. "Oh, you looked comfortable so I thought I'd join you."

He was trying to get a rise out of her. To make her give in and admit defeat. They had always enjoyed winding each other up, competing to see who would break first.

"Do the rules apply to you too? No touching?"

"No." He shrugged. "Though, in order for you to touch me, I would be touching you. Therefore I think it's best if we keep our distance."

A smile threatened to tug at the corners of her mouth. She nodded in agreement and sat down in the armchair on the other side of the room, crossing one leg over the other and curling her fingers around the armrests.

"You're not going to win this one, Holmes," she said.

"Neither are you... Holmes."

Sherlock had never been overtly flirtatious; much preferring to say exactly what he meant without the frills of suggestion. But sometimes, if Margaux got him in the right mood, she was able to draw it out of him. A playfulness; a confidence in his own sexuality in which he knew she couldn't resist him for long.

His eyes flickered to the television as the host asked another question.

_'What is the name of the psychologist whose 1963 obedience study was deemed unethical due to the lasting effects on its participants?'_

"Zimbardo," said Sherlock confidently.

"Milgram," Margaux countered.

_'The correct answer is Stanley Milgram.'_

She smiled smugly and raised an eyebrow. "So, we're really going spend our _one_ night alone doing this?"

"Feel free to put an end to it whenever you like," he replied.


	16. Night In • Omitted Scene

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Warning: Smut.
> 
> As requested, here is an omitted scene from the previous oneshot 'Night In', which basically means it's an entire chapter of sex. Please feel free to skip to the next chapter if you're not interested in explicit content. 
> 
> If you are interested then I hope you enjoy - I'm always so nervous about posting smut so would love to hear any thoughts people have on this scene.

Night In • Omitted Scene

"So, we're really going spend our _one_ night alone doing this?"

"Feel free to put an end to it whenever you like," he replied.

"You really don't want to turn this into a competition..."

"Why? Because I'll win?"

She opened her mouth to speak but closed it quickly, holding back the urge to smirk.

The host on television asked another question.

"1959," said Sherlock.

' _The correct answer is 1959.'_

"I'm also winning at this." He pointed at the TV.

"I wasn't listening," said Margaux. "Too distracted by the half-naked man in my living room."

She wondered what her next move should be, what she could do to regain control and secure the upper hand. Sherlock had proven over the years that he was a master of restraint; able to maintain composure and store away feelings of desire as if they didn't exist. So she thought back to the times when lust had overcame him - what she had said to make him lose his composure, what had happened in those moments to make him break.

She cleared her throat. "Well if we can't touch each other-"

"Incorrect. I never said you can't touch me."

"Mm. Well since we're not _touching_ ," she corrected herself. "Perhaps I should just _tell_ you what I'd like to be doing right now instead..."

He raised an eyebrow and she noticed his chest rise, as if he were taking a deep, slow breath.

"There's this thing you do when you kiss me," she began. "That tells me what kind of sex we're about to have."

She was trying to sound confident and alluring. But the extent of her dirty-talk experience had been a whisper in his ear, a couple of risqué texts. Never anything as brazen as this. Sherlock was her husband, the father of her children. Yet still she found herself feeling nervous, like she was scared of embarrassing herself.

She swallowed her concern and continued. "If you put your hands on my face or hold me by the waist while you kiss me, I know it's going to be soft and romantic. But... if you grab my hair, or dig your fingers into my back, I know to expect the opposite."

"You make me sound like I'm the sole dictator of our sexual encounters."

"Oh no, no. I've just gotten good at getting what I want without having to ask for it."

"Oh really?" He straightened his posture, a slight cynicism in his tone. "And what exactly is it you want?"

"Well..." she paused for a moment, thinking of the most seductive way to phrase it. "Sometimes I like it when you hold me, make love to me." She locked eyes with him. "Other times I don't want to be treated so nice."

She was certain she saw his jaw clench.

He knew what she was trying to do and if he were not so competitive, he thought, he may have let her win. He focused his mind, using every last bit of restraint to fight off the urge to stand up, to bound across the room and take her in his arms. He was sure if he did, they wouldn't even make it upstairs. But he wasn't going to let that happen. Instead he sat there, listening with shallow breaths as she continued to speak.

"I can't remember the last time we had the house to ourselves." She shifted in her seat, looking around at the dimly-lit living room. "I've got so used to being quiet, sneaking around, moaning into a pillow."

"Mm," he replied quietly.

"I've almost forgotten what it's like, to not have to hold back. It's quite frustrating." She paused. "It'd be nice to... let all that frustration out."

"There are lots of ways to alleviate frustration," he replied, keeping his eyes on the television. "You could go on a run, smash a couple of plates-"

"Mm, but the way I was thinking involved me on my knees..."

His breath hitched and his eyes snapped in her direction. She pushed her tongue into her cheek and cocked her head, holding back a smile.

Sherlock swallowed, taking a moment to compose himself. "Stand up," he said, his voice quiet yet assertive.

She did as she was told. Rising from the armchair slowly.

"Come here."

Once again, she did as instructed, only making it half way across the room before he spoke again.

"Stop." He stood up and met her in the middle of the room, standing in front of her with his hands behind his back.

She stood there, her heart pounding with anticipation as he leaned in to speak in her ear. He was so close she could feel his breath on her skin, but no part of him ever touched her.

"You know me so well," he began, his low, gravelly voice tingling in her ear. "Yet you seem to have forgotten one of the most important things." He waited for what felt like forever before whispering softly. "I never lose."

She looked up at him with wide, confused eyes.

He took a step back and smiled kindly. "Goodnight, my love."

She found herself standing alone in the living room, annoyed yet impressed, disappointed yet incredibly turned on by his refusal to give in to her.

*

He lay on his back in bed, hands resting behind his head. He smirked as he heard her climb the stairs and walk across the landing to the bathroom. She was stomping around, it made him giggle. He closed his eyes and relaxed into the mattress, keeping them closed as the bedroom door opened and slammed shut.

Suddenly, there was gush of cold water over his face, pouring up his nose and into his mouth. He gasped loudly and sat up, wiping his eyes and looking up at Margaux.

"There." She was standing with the empty glass in her hand. "You tried to drown me, I tried to drown you. So we're even," she said, pausing for a moment. "Now touch me."

He stared at her, breathing heavily, his heart thumping from the shock. She put the glass on the bedside table and stood there, not quite knowing what to do next.

But she didn't have to do anything.

Before she could say another word, Sherlock had risen to his feet, taking her by the face and turning her around. He threw her on the bed and grabbed her wrists, pinning them either side of her head and staring down at her with intense, stormy eyes.

Her stomach fluttered, an electric current running from her core and raising goosebumps on her flesh as it travelled through her body. His anger was palpable, like a hot, throbbing heat between them. But it wasn't the kind of anger that ended in arguments, in slamming doors and cold shoulders. It was the kind that made his movements more forceful, his kisses less tender. Because he wasn't angry about what she had done - he was angry that she'd somehow managed to win.

He kissed her hard, as if he were hungry; desperate to feel her lips on his. If this was what she wanted, he thought, then he would give it to her. He pulled his head back slightly, almost smirking as she panted to catch her breath. He dipped his head forward, letting his wet curls fall into her face. She giggled and tried to squirm away, but his grip on her wrists was firm, his full weight laying on top of her.

"Stop, Sherlock." She laughed.

He did as he was told, smiling as he lifted his head, bringing them eye-to-eye again.

"I have to be honest with you, Margaux," he said quietly. "I'm not in the mood to... how did you put it? 'Treat you so nice'..."

She didn't reply. It was as if his words had burrowed beneath her flesh, stole the breath from her lungs, the moisture from her mouth.

"So I thought I'd tell you now, that I love you," he continued, his words quiet and precise. "Because I don't think I'll be saying it again for a little while."

She parted her lips and exhaled softly, certain her pounding heart was visible through her chest. They had been married for five years, yet still she found herself speechless. She wondered if that feeling would ever go away, hoping deep down that it wouldn't.

"If I didn't know any better," she began, forcing the words out. "I'd say I've managed to get under your skin..."

He lay a kiss on her neck, laughing quietly against her pulse. "Mm. And you're going to regret it."

She felt his teeth graze over the places he had kissed, trailing down until he reached the lacey material of her bra. He released her wrists and hooked his fingers into the straps, pulling them off her shoulders, and dragging them down her arms. She helped him take it off, glaring at him in a silent reminder that her breast were off-limits. They had been sore, too sensitive for him to touch no matter how gentle he tried to be. He rolled his eyes and skimmed over them softly with his tongue, kissing and nipping at her ribs, her waist, her stomach.

She felt a tingling shiver as his mouth reached her underwear. But he didn't try to remove it, didn't slip his fingers beneath the material or tug it aside. Instead he teased her, pressing his lips against her centre, the lacey fabric creating a barrier between his mouth and her pleasure.

She threw her head back and let out a frustrated groan, thrusting her hips forward in a desperate attempt for friction. She reached down, weaving her fingers through his hair. But he pulled away, taking her arms and pinning them back to the bed.

"Hands to yourself," he said in a dark, low voice.

There it was again, the jolt of electricity through her body. She kept her arms by her sides as ran his hands up her thighs, grabbing her by the hips and pulling her forcefully to the edge of the bed.

She couldn't remember the last time he had been in a mood like this; dominant, passionate, lustful. Since their youngest son was born, sex had become a series of stolen moments; lazy mornings beneath the sheets or late night quickies on the couch, covered mouths and constant interruptions. It was as if he had been dying to get his hands on her like this. And she wasn't complaining.

He slid his hand beneath her underwear, stopping suddenly. "Hm. Maybe I should reintroduce the no touching rule."

"Don't you dare."

"But I did say I'd make you regret it."

She wrapped her fingers around his wrist, guiding him back down between her legs. "Do you want me to beg?"

He inhaled slowly through his nose, crawling back up her body to bring them face-to-face again. He kissed her, just once, before pulling back and looking into her eyes.

"Not yet," he whispered.

Before she could say anything, he had slid his fingers down, rubbing her aching bud with a firm, steady pressure. She closed her eyes and let out a sound somewhere between a gasp and a moan.

She threw her head back and he began to kiss her neck, biting and sucking blooms onto her skin. She tried to reach down and touch him, her fingers just grazing the waistband of his underwear before he jerked his hips back and shook his head.

He moved to the bottom of the bed, tugging her underwear down and almost tearing it from her body. He dug his fingers into her thighs and parted them eagerly, wasting no time before working his tongue into her centre.

He would sometimes think back to when they first started sleeping together; how he had feigned his confidence when going down on her like this. Before their first sexual encounter, he had studied how to please a woman with his mouth, justifying it to himself as research, sure he would know exactly what to do if the time ever came. But truthfully, he had no idea, feeling a sense of relief and pride wash over him when her body responded so eagerly. With every meeting that came after, he had grown to recognise the signs - the bucking of her hips, the sound of her moans - now, he was able to bring her to climax with nothing but his tongue, able to control how quickly her orgasm would come, able to feel when it was rising inside of her.

She let out a moan as he continued his ministrations, gripping the sheets and gasping as she felt his fingers slip inside her, curling upwards and stroking the spot that made her body shiver with pleasure. She mumbled a few incoherent swear words, bit her lip out of habit of needing to be quiet.

An orgasm was building, throbbing against his mouth and spreading through her like fire. Her toes curled and her eyes clamped shut as she begged him not to stop.

"I'm close." She panted. "Oh god, I'm..."

He stopped what he was doing. Pulling away suddenly and without warning. She let out a cry and propped herself up on her elbows, looking down at him as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

"Why!?" It was the only thing she could bring herself to say, almost whimpering as she tried to catch her breath, her climax retreating like a fading light.

"I said I wasn't in the mood to be nice."

Her mouth fell open and she threw herself back with a huff.

"Now this..." he said, rising to his feet. "Would be a good time to beg."

She lifted her head again, staring at him like she couldn't believe what he had said. She sat up and shuffled down so she was sitting on the edge of the bed, reaching out and pulling him closer by the waistband of his underwear.

He gripped her face with one hand, his fingers and thumb squeezing her cheeks as he tilted her head up to look at him. "Well?"

The room was silent, the air hot with tension.

"Please," she finally whispered.

He dragged her to her feet, bringing his lips close enough to touch hers, waiting until she tried to lean in before pulling away. He turned her around, holding her back against his chest. He knew she could feel that he was aching for her, his hard length pressing against her lower back. She pushed her hips back, grinding against the erection trapped beneath his underwear and relishing in the growl that poured from his mouth.

"What was that?" he said. "I didn't quite catch it."

"Please," she repeated, louder this time. "I want- I want you... to..."

He wrapped his hand around her neck, squeezing gently. "You want me to what?"

"Make me come."

"How?"

He let go of her, watching quietly as she stepped forward and climbed onto the bed.

"Like this," she whispered.

She was on her knees, hips in the air and chest flat to the mattress, creating a deep curve in her lower back. She stayed there, listening and waiting, hearing his feet shuffling against the carpet followed by the sound of him spitting into his hand.

She felt him come up behind her, his fingers gripping her hip, the head of his erection pushing into her slowly. She clutched the duvet in anticipation, but he never entered further. Instead he pulled back, teasing her with the slightest thrusts that made her cry out with need.

"Please," she said. "I need all of you."

"There's a different between need and want," he said as he continued to move slowly.

"Sherlock-" 

"You don't _need_ it."

"Sherlock..."

"You _want_ it."

"Sherlock!"

He stopped moving and rolled his eyes, a slight smirk in the corner of his mouth. "Fine," he said, before snapping his hips forward and sinking into her completely.

She gasped at the force of his penetration, the feeling of him hitting the wall inside her. He was going to ask sarcastically if that was better, but no sound left him besides a quiet groan. He began to move steadily, listening to the sounds she was making and changing his pace until they morphed into loud moans.

She felt his hand come down on her backside, hard and loud like the cracking of a whip, before his fingers dug into her flesh, pulling her against him as he thrust into her. She swore under her breath, propping herself up on her hands, elbows shaking as she struggled to keep them locked straight.

Her orgasm was building again, and although she didn't tell him this time, he still knew it was coming; he could feel it in the way she tightened around him, in her haggard breath and goosebumped skin. He kept going until she was on the brink, so close that she became completely silent, and then he stopped.

She cried out, collapsing face-first into the bed. Sometimes he would do this when he was close; needing a moment to bring himself back down before he could continue. But as he instructed her to stand up, she realised that wasn't the reason.

She climbed off the bed and pulled him into a hot, frustrated kiss, showing how much she wanted him and hoping it would make him give in. He began to walk her across the room, the pair stumbling together as they kissed. She felt something hard behind her, reaching back and feeling the ridge of the chest of drawers against her back.

He lifted her onto it, knocking over the collection of picture frames and perfumes that sat atop and bracing his hands either side of her. She wrapped her legs around his waist and dragged her nails down his back, like she was drawing him in, making it clear he wouldn't get to pull away this time.

As he entered her again, she realised why he had moved them to the chest of drawers; because with every thrust, the bottles would clatter, the unit hitting the wall like the knocking of a headboard. She said she'd forgotten what it was like to not hold back, to be loud and rough with one another, and he was showing her.

He leaned forward and ran his teeth over her shoulder, his staggered, shallow breath pooling in the hollow of her collarbone. He could feel her nails in his back, her ankles crossed, heels digging into his backside to drive him deeper into her.

She could feel it swelling, the familiar, delicious heat that pulsated through her body and made her moan against his ear. "Please don't stop," she whispered.

He could feel himself unravelling, close to the brink and not sure how long he could hold off. He reached down between them, rubbing his fingers over the place she was most sensitive, pulling her climax out of her and groaning at the feeling of her muscles tightening around him. She let go of him, gripping the edges of the unit and throwing her head back as her orgasm ripped through her, unable to speak besides a string of moans and unintelligible swear words. He removed his hand and grabbed her face, trailing his thumb over her lips, knees almost buckling when she took it in her mouth, letting her teeth graze over his knuckle as she sucked on it gently. 

And with that, he was gone; his mind blank, eyes clouded with lust as he pulled out quickly and released himself over her parted thighs. He groaned and grunted, his body collapsing into hers as he rested his forehead on her shoulder. 

"Wow," she said. 

"Mm," he mumbled, as if it were all he could muster.

She giggled softly, covering her eyes with her hand and blowing out an exhausted breath. "Wow."

"You already said that." 

*

Margaux stood in the bathroom cleaning her body with a wet flannel when there was a knock on the door. 

"Yes?" 

He pushed it open and stepped into the room. "Ah, sorry about that," he said.

"Why are you sorry? At least you remembered to pull out." She'd had a hard time with contraceptives since giving birth to their youngest son, deciding to take a break from them completely. 

She stood up and walked to the sink when Sherlock's eyes began to trail her body; the tangled hair, the red splotches on her neck and chest. She turned away from him and his eyes widened. 

"What?" she said, noticing his reaction.

She followed his eye line down her body, twisting her waist and looking over her shoulder at herself in the mirror, at the large, red handprint on her backside. 

"I seem to have gotten carried away," said Sherlock as he walked towards her. 

She laughed. "Not half."

"I'm sorry." He kissed her on the side of the head.

"Oh, don't apologise. You should do this more often."

He crouched down and ran his thumb gently over the handprint. "I think it's going to bruise."

She pressed her mouth into a straight line. "I was supposed to take the kids swimming tomorrow. Probably not the best idea unless I can find a way to cover it up."

"I could take them," he replied with a shrug before standing up and walking away.

She turned around and began to giggle as she laid eyes on his back. "Mm, I don't think you will."

"Why?"

She curled her finger, beckoning him back over to her. He walked up to the mirror and she placed her hands on his shoulders, turning him around and gesturing for him to look at his reflection, at his back covered in scratches.

He raised his brow and cleared his throat. "Well then..."


	17. Sick

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Requested on Wattpad: I'd love to see how Sherlock handles being alone when one of children gets sick.

Sick

A large overnight bag sat on the dining table. Margaux stood in front of it, piling up folders and slotting them inside. She was wearing a long coat, her hair loose and tucked behind her ears as she leaned forward.

Sherlock stepped into the doorway, standing quietly for a moment and watching her pack. He walked up behind her and placed his hands on her shoulders, squeezing them gently as he towered over her.

"That's a big bag for two nights," he said.

"I said _possibly_ two nights," she replied. "It could be longer. This one bag has all my case work in it, as well as my clothes, shoes, toiletries. I actually think I've done well to fit it all in the one place."

"I'm still rather annoyed they didn't ask _me_ to go."

She turned around to face him, leaning back against the edge of the table. "No, no, no. See, you catch the killers, I make them confess. In the words of Greg Lestrade: this is _my_ division." She patted him on the arm. "Besides, I need you here to watch over our brood."

"Mm." He glanced around, suddenly noticing how quiet the house was. "Where are they anyway?"

"Vee's in Rosie's," she replied. "Flora, Sadie and Arden went to your parents' for dinner."

"What about Milo? Was one extra child too much for them?"

She laughed. "He's been fussy today, didn't want to leave my side."

"Hm. Where is he now?"

"Sleeping."

He raised an eyebrow, looking up at the clock on the wall. "Sleeping? It's almost 5 o'clock."

She sighed. "I know, I know. He didn't nap this afternoon and then he drifted off in his playpen about half an hour ago. I just had so much to do, so I left him in there to sleep."

"Well," he huffed. "I'm in for a long night."

"I'm sorry. Why don't you go in and see if you can wake him?"

"Now, if I've learned anything since becoming a father, it's that you never wake a two-year-old unless you want your head bitten off."

She laughed. "He's been in a funny mood all day. I doubt he'll sleep much longer."

She turned her back on him to zip up her bag before checking her watch. "Right, I better go. I'm meeting Dave Small at the train station."

He grimaced. David Small. A laddish, overly confident detective with too-white teeth and muscles so big he couldn't put his arms flat to his sides. They had got off on the wrong foot immediately when Dave spoke over him as he tried to deduce a crime scene. Things only getting worse when Sherlock forgot his name and referred to him as 'the meat head' in front of the entire homicide division. But the real reason Sherlock didn't like him, was because of Dave's clear attraction to his wife.

"Small," he said. "A rather fitting name - small brain, small feet, I wonder what else is small..."

"Stop it, you." She batted his arm.

"No. I don't like him."

"Why?"

"Why!? Because he's infatuated with a married woman. Sometimes he even flirts with her right in front of her husband," he gestured to himself. "It's like he forgets I know how to hide a body and it never be found."

She shook her head and tutted softly.

"I notice these things, Margaux. And I don't like the idea of you going on a little trip with a man who spends more time mentally undressing you than he does actually doing his job."

"It's not a 'little trip'. It's work."

"How can you not see that he fancies you?"

"Sherlock, I analyse behaviour for a living, I'm more than aware that he fancies me."

He glared at her.

"But just because he fancies me doesn't mean I fancy him." She laughed. "What would I want with Dave Small when I have _this_ at home?" She took fistfuls of his shirt and pulled him closer to her.

He rolled his eyes as she kissed him on the cheek.

"If he tries anything I _will_ kill him," he said in a low, serious voice.

She smirked, secretly loving Sherlock's jealous streak. 

"Right," she said as she walked out into the hall and down to the living room.

Milo was still asleep in his pen. She kissed her fingertips and touched them against his head before making her way to the front door. Sherlock followed behind, stopping as she turned to face him.

"Be good," she said. "Look after my babies. Try not to spend all your time thinking about Dave and I sleeping together in a Holiday Inn."

He grumbled.

"I'm joking."

He took her face in his hands and kissed her deeply, holding onto her as she reached back for the doorhandle.

"Sherlock." She giggled against his lips. "You have to let me go."

He kissed her again, reluctantly stepping back to let her open the door.

"See you soon," she said with a smile.

He stood on the doorstep and watched as she threw her bag into the boot of the car. She slammed it shut and walked around to the driver's side before changing her mind and hurrying back towards the house.

He furrowed his brow as she approached, about to ask her what she had forgotten when she wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him again.

"I love you," she whispered.

"I love you too."

He waited until she had driven off before closing the door, leaning back against it and huffing. He missed her already - he had never missed anyone until he met Margaux, blaming her thoroughly for turning him soft.

*

He sat at the desk in the study looking over a letter from a potential client when a small, sad voice called out through the double doors.

"Mummy?"

He stood up and walked through to the living room, laying eyes on his son as he stood holding the bars of his playpen. He was wobbly on his feet, his mop of curly, dark hair skewed from sleep.

"Mummy's not here," he said, walking over and lifting him into his arms. "You're stuck with me, I'm afraid."

Milo lay his head on his father's chest, cuddling into him like he was ready to fall asleep again. Sherlock stroked his hair, looking down at him as he nuzzled against his shirt.

"What's the matter, my boy?"

He mumbled quietly.

Sherlock was usually good at understanding his son when he spoke; where other people heard gibberish, he heard a question, where others heard a shout or a babble, he heard a full, coherent sentence. But he couldn't make this out.

He glanced at the clock. Margaux had only been gone for thirty minutes.

"Shall we get you something to eat?"

"Nooo." The boy shook his head and began to whinge.

"Hey," he said softly, wandering slowly around the room with him. "We'll have less of that, thank you sir."

He walked through to the kitchen and sat him on the counter, leaning forward and staring into his round, amber-hued eyes. He was the only child to not have inherited the glacial blue of his father, though in every other way, there was no denying he was a Holmes.

"How about... some strawberries?" asked Sherlock, making his voice light and excited.

"No!"

"How about... some toast?"

"No! No din."

"What do you mean no dinner? I can't not feed you."

The boy continued to shout 'no', working himself up until he began to cry. Sherlock shushed him gently, pulling him into a hug and lifting him off the counter.

"What's got into you? You're usually the happy one."

"I wan mummy."

"So do I, darling." He patted and rubbed his back, cheering his voice up as he spoke again. "But we're okay, aren't we? We'll be fine."

Suddenly, he felt a warm sensation over his shoulder and down his back, the familiar sound of retching. He grimaced. Milo began to scream, tears streaming down his flustered, red face, sick gathered in the corner of his mouth.

Sherlock took a deep breath and looked around, unsure of what to do first. Whenever his children had been sick in the past, he had always been lucky enough to have his wife there to help. This time he was alone, standing in the kitchen covered in vomit, a screaming toddler in his arms.

"It's okay," he said, as kindly as he could.

He undressed his son, throwing his dirty clothes on the floor before unbuttoning his own shirt with one hand and peeling it off. He took a clean corner of the shirt and wiped the boy's mouth, cooing and shushing to try and calm him down.

Milo's cheeks were bright red, worryingly hot as Sherlock threw his shirt on the floor and placed the back of his hand on his forehead. He walked them to the back door and slid it open, stepping out into the cool evening air and rocking him back and forth as if he were a newborn baby.

"It's alright, son," he said quietly. "You're alright."

He had faced ticking bombs and loaded guns, cold-blooded killers and psychopathic criminals. But none of it compared to the fear he felt being completely alone with a sick child.

*

He lay Milo on the couch, surrounding him with cushions to stop him from falling. He stood back with his hands on his hips, taking a second to admire his work before pulling his phone out and walking into the kitchen.

He held the phone to his ear as he collected the pile of dirty clothes from the floor and threw them into the washing machine, his mouth pressing into a straight line when he noticed the freshly-washed laundry already inside.

"Oh well," he muttered, closing the washing machine door with his foot.

"Hello?" her voice chimed through the phone.

"Hi," he said. "Where's the pink stuff we give to the kids when they're not well?"

"Pink st- Do you mean Calpol?"

"Yes."

"Why? What's wrong?" He could hear the panic in her voice.

"Milo may have a _slight_ fever," he said.

"He... Oh god, is he okay?"

"He's fine. I'm handling it."

"Forgive me, but that does not ease my concern."

"Margaux, the pink stuff?"

"Oh, god, yes it's in the top cupboard above the kettle. Right at the back."

He reached up and pulled it out. "Got it."

"Sherlock, are you sure he's okay?"

"Darling, I swear to you, I would die before I let anything happen to him."

She gave a relieved sigh. "I know that, I do."

"It's just a high temperature. Please don't worry."

He was telling her not to worry, yet he was worrying himself. He ended their call and took the medicine into the living room.

Milo hadn't moved, his eyes heavy as he lay curled up on his side. It wasn't like him to stay in one place for this long; he was an explorer, a mischief maker. Seeing him so tired, his little body so weak and slumped, was enough to break Sherlock's self-proclaimed cold heart.

He sat down beside him, reading over the dosage on the bottle several times. He leaned over with the syringe full of medicine.

"Open your mouth."

Milo furrowed his brow, clamping his lips together tightly and shaking his head.

"It's the nice medicine! You like this one."

"No."

"Come on, son, it'll make you feel better."

"No!"

Sherlock took a deep breath, overcome with the sudden urge to prise his mouth open and force the medicine in. But a voice in the back of his mind told him not to, reminding him that this wasn't how you dealt with children.

"See," he said, tipping his head back and squeezing the dose into his own mouth. "Mm that is yummy. Now your turn..."

He refilled the syringe and leaned in slowly, finding himself in a silent standoff with his two-year-old. His children were too clever; something he always saw as a good thing, a point of pride. But right now it was a curse.

"Look, I'm going to level with you," he said, as if he were speaking to someone his own age. "If you don't take this medicine then mummy will shout at me. You don't want that, do you?"

He babbled back at his father argumentatively.

"Fine. Take the medicine and I'll give you something. Anything you want. Within reason."

He pointed at the TV. "Peppa."

"Oh no, anything but that god awful pig."

"Peppa," he repeated sternly.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Fine. But medicine first."

He gave him the syringe and flicked on the cartoon before leaving the room and running upstairs.

He stood in the bedroom and sighed, taking a clean shirt from the wardrobe and slipping it on. He hadn't even buttoned it all the way before he heard Milo crying for him in the living room. He ran back downstairs, shirt half-undone to see a stream of bright pink vomit down the side of the couch, his son leaning over and screaming hysterically.

"Again? Really?" he said as he rushed towards him and scooped him up into his arms.

"Meddy bad."

"No, the medicine-" He sighed, realising he was trying to argue with a baby. "Never mind."

He felt his forehead and hummed in the back of his throat. Still hot. He wondered what he should do, what Margaux would do.

"Come on," he said as he walked them through to the kitchen.

He sat Milo on his hip, holding him securely with one arm while he rummaged through the cupboards and pulled out a baby bottle. He used one hand to fill the bottle with cold water, struggling as he screwed on the lid and lifted it to the boy's mouth.

"No!" Milo shouted.

"Please, son. Just a little bit."

He wondered what his enemies would think of him if they could see him now. The mysterious, calculated, ruthless Sherlock Holmes speaking softly and rocking side-to-side as he begged a two-year-old to drink some water. It was ridiculous. A tougher task than even the most difficult mysteries.

He gave up and put the bottle down, taking his phone from his back pocket and wedging it between his ear and shoulder.

"John," he said, stroking the back of Milo's head. "I have a question."

"Oh good, I have a question for you too. Vaughan said you told him he could spend the night here. Did you?"

"No. But John, I-"

"See, Vee! I knew you were lying."

He could hear his eldest son arguing in the background, rolling his eyes and shushing gently as the toddler continued to cry against his chest.

"John!"

"Yep?"

"Focus. Put your Doctor hat on and tell me, if Milo threw up a dose of medicine, can I give him more?"

"You've really come to me about drug advice?"

"Mm well my expertise tends to lie in much stronger substances..."

"No," he sighed. "Don't give him more."

There was silence. He assumed John could hear the baby crying and his desperate attempts to shush him.

"Do you want me to let Vaughan stay here?" John finally said.

"That would be rather helpful, yes."

"What about the other kids?"

"They're at my parents. I should probably call them too, see if they can keep them overnight."

"Right well, if you need anything..."

"I know," he replied. "Thanks..." he added reluctantly.

*

He woke in the living room to the sound of his phone ringing, bewildered and disorientated, unable to remember falling asleep.

Milo was sleeping on his chest, face down, nuzzled against his half-buttoned shirt. He reached down and grabbed the phone which had fallen on the floor, answering it with a whisper.

"Hello?"

"I just got into my hotel," said Margaux. "Wanted to call and see how he is."

He reached down and touched the boy's head. He was cooler, his breathing steady and slow after managing to keep down the second lot of medicine. The four hours between doses had been hell, and Sherlock had never felt so helpless. He understood now what people meant when they said they wished they could take someone else's pain away.

"I think he's okay," he replied.

"You _think_?"

"No," he grumbled sleepily. "He's right here with me, he's fine. What time is it?"

"It's after midnight. Did you fall asleep?"

"Mm, must have."

She laughed softly down the phone. "I knew something wasn't right with him today. I'm sorry for leaving you-"

"Don't apologise. You couldn't have known."

"I know, I just worry about you. It's not that I don't think you can handle it, it's just... well..."

"It's just that you don't think I can handle it."

"No I do. Honestly, I do. Do you really think I'd have kept having babies with you if I didn't think you were a good dad?"

"Well, a fair few of them _were_ accidental..."

"Sherlock," she hissed.

He chuckled quietly, stroking the back of Milo's head.

"You know you're their favourite, don't you?" she said. "Every single one of them adores you."

"That's because I'm the fun parent."

"How many times do I have to tell you? Taking them on cases and letting them play with your chemistry equipment does not make you the 'fun one'. It makes you a pain in _my_ arse."

"I bet Dave Small wishes he was a pain in your arse."

The sound of her laughter made him smile. "God what have you done to me?" he said.

"What do you mean?"

"I actually... _miss_ you."

She giggled. "I miss you too, you big softie."

Milo began to stir, wriggling around and sleep talking beneath his dummy.

"I have to go," Sherlock whispered. "One of the non-accidents is awake."

"Sherlock you better stop calling Vaughan and the twins accidents."

"Alright, alright," he said with a smirk. "I love you."

"I love you."

He hung up the phone and sat up, wrapping his arms around his son so he didn't fall.

"Feeling better?" he asked.

He mumbled, rubbing his tired eyes with his fists.

Sherlock pulled the dummy from his mouth. "Say that again?"

"Daddy we seep i-yo ba."

"Yes, of course we can sleep in my bed," he replied, understanding him perfectly. "Come on."

He stood up and bent down to pick him up, but Milo held up his palm, as if he were an old man refusing a helping hand to cross the street.

"I walk."

Sherlock laughed softly. "Okay."

He never thought he possessed the capability of patience; losing his temper easily and always looking for the quickest solution to a problem. But when it came to his children, he found he had all the time in the world. Even in the early hours of the morning, after an evening of sickness and screaming, he waited calmly as his son climbed the stairs, holding his hand and encouraging him with every step he took.

When they got into the bedroom, he changed his nappy and dressed him in a pair of clean pyjamas before pulling back the duvet and letting him crawl beneath it. He got in beside him, checking his temperature one last time just to be sure, before pretending to magically pull the dummy from behind his ear.

Milo giggled and popped it in his mouth, curling up beside him and clinging to his arm that draped around his middle.

"V'you daddy."

"Love you too, son."


	18. When He Was Gone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Requested on FFN: Can we find out what it was like for Margaux when she thought Sherlock was dead? Like going through the pregnancy by herself and stuff.

When He Was Gone

Ferocious wind battered the window of the bus stop. It was freezing cold, rain threatening to fall through the dark clouds as Margaux waited, arms folded tight across her chest to keep her coat closed, knees knocking together as she fidgeting on the spot.

It had become normal since Sherlock died for a wave of sadness to suddenly overcome her, without reason or warning. She tilted her head back and blinked a few times, opening her eyes wide to stop the tears from escaping.

The bus ride was short. Noisy and crowded yet somehow so lonely as she stood gripping the rail. When she got off at her stop, she walked quickly to a large building, flashing her badge to a security guard who let her inside.

She went deep into the building, not entirely sure of where she was going but being sure to walk with intent, as if she belonged there. She stepped up to a sleek, round reception desk and placed her hands on the counter.

"Yes?" the receptionist asked as he pressed a button on the side of his headset.

"I'm here to see Mycroft Holmes, do you know where I might find him?" she replied.

He eyed her for a moment before directing her towards the lifts. "Twelfth floor."

She nodded and walked away, hurrying into the lift before the doors closed, feeling the sadness return as she stood amongst the group of officials in the small, crowded space.

The twelfth floor was dimly lit, almost lair-like. A woman sat behind a desk, one leg crossed over the other with her face buried in her phone.

"Hi," said Margaux. "I'd like to speak with Mycroft Holmes please."

"Mr Holmes is in a meeting," she replied without looking up.

"Okay, well I'll wait."

"He's likely to be a very long time, it's a negotiation."

"Honestly, I'll wait."

The woman put her phone down and glared up at her. "I'm sorry, what's your name?"

"Margaux Cave."

"Okay Miss Cave, well Mr Holmes is very unlikely to entertain an impromptu visit-"

"It's er it's _Doctor_ Cave," she interrupted, her nervous voice laced with irritation. "And I'm sorry but I'm not leaving until I've spoken to him."

There was a long, awkward silence as the two of them stared at each other. Neither budging, unwilling to let the other win.

Margaux rolled her eyes and cleared her throat. "I assure you he'll meet with me," she said. "Tell him it's the woman from the basement."

"The...?"

"He'll know what it means."

*

She stood near the door with her hands in the pockets of her coat, watching as the tall, suited man strolled towards his desk and sat down behind it. He leaned back slightly in his chair, his movements casual and indifferent as he gestured to the chair on the other side of the desk.

"Anthea tells me you were rather insistent on meeting me," he said.

"Yes, Mr Holmes," Margaux replied as she sat down opposite him.

"What can I do for you?"

She cleared her throat. "I know... I know that Sherlock withheld a lot of the details... about why I was involved in the incident with Moriarty at Bart's."

"Okay?"

She cleared her throat again, unable to clear the lump that had taken root inside. "There's erm... there's no _delicate_ way of putting this but... I was sleeping with your brother before he died."

Mycroft was cold and calm, but there was a lift in his brow, a slight tilt of his head.

"We were meeting regularly for... sex." She grimaced at how awkward it felt to say the words out loud, shifting in her seat. "For almost a year."

"Well..." he began calmly. "And I thought throwing himself of a roof was the most shocking thing he'd ever-"

"I'm pregnant," she said quickly. "And in case it wasn't already obvious, the baby is Sherlock's."

He stared at her for a moment, the air in the room completely still.

"How far along are you?" he finally asked.

"13+2."

He raised an eyebrow.

"Thirteen weeks and two days."

He picked up a pen and began to scrawl on a notepad. "So that would make you due..."

"In August."

"Right then." He put down the pen and sat up straight, clasping his hands together on the desk in front of him.

"Do you have any preferences for private healthcare providers?"

"Oh, I'm not... I don't want anything from you, I'm not after your money." She shook her head insistently. "I just, I wanted you to know."

"Why?"

"B-because... because this is Sherlock's baby?" she furrowed her brow in confusion. "I thought you had a right to know that you're going to have a niece or nephew."

He gave a low, unamused hum in the back of his throat, his eyebrow slightly raised as he looked her up and down.

"God." She breathed out a laugh. "You're just like him."

*

The midday sun beamed brightly through the window, but Margaux had somehow still managed to fall asleep. She was sprawled on the couch with a cushion covering her eyes, dreaming of him, as she often did.

He was standing in her childhood home looking at a poster on her bedroom wall. She walked up behind him and reached out, placing a hand on his shoulder. He turned around and looked down at her.

'Oh my god, you're really here,' she said.

'Where else would I be?' he replied.

'I thought you died.'

'Whatever gave you that idea?'

She took his face in her hands and stared into his eyes. 'Sherlock, I need to tell you something. I'm pregnant.'

'I know.'

They both looked down at her stomach. It was large and round, like the baby could come at any moment.

'Oh...' she said.

He leaned down and kissed her, holding her close to him. She relaxed into his arms, savouring the kiss when a knocking began to echo around them.

'You should get that,' he said.

'I don't want to. I want to stay here with you.'

The knocking grew louder and she felt him slipping out of her arms.

'No, Sherlock, please stay.'

'You should get that,' he said again, his voice growing quieter.

Suddenly she woke, lifting the cushion off her eyes and blinking in the bright afternoon light. Her hand automatically went to her stomach, as if she had forgotten for a moment that she didn't actually have a bump yet. It had been a dream, all of it; the bump, the house, Sherlock. He was still dead. The realisation forcing tears to spill onto her cheeks as she cried quietly.

The knocking began again at her front door. She wiped her face with her sleeve and took a deep breath before climbing off the couch and walking down the hall.

She opened the door to see Mycroft waiting in his smart suit, leaning on his umbrella like a cane.

"Mr Holmes?"

"Apologies for stopping by unannounced," he said.

She let him inside, watching as he eyed her home with a quiet judgment.

"How did you find out where I live?"

"It's a perk of the job." He turned to her, noticing her irritated eyes, the way she sniffed every few moments. "Truthfully, I expected you to be at work."

"Oh, I'm erm, I'm on bereavement leave."

"Isn't that usually for spouses? Or was there also a secret wedding I wasn't aware of?"

"No there wasn't," she replied, adopting a sarcastic tone. "But they approved it since, y'know, he was the father of my unborn baby and all that..."

The corner of his mouth twitched. She was feisty, it intrigued him.

"Do you want a cup of tea or something?" she asked.

"Why not," he replied.

She directed him to the living room and went into the kitchen, filling the kettle and taking two mugs from the cupboard.

Mycroft stood in the middle of the living room. Although there was a perfectly good couch beside him, he chose to stand, his eyes skimming the framed photographs on the bookshelf and mantelpiece.

"Sorry about the mess of blankets," said Margaux. "I've taken to sleeping on the couch, not sure why."

He turned to see her standing with two steaming mugs in her hands.

"I'm sure it's not the fine china teacups you're used to," she said as she put them on the coffee table.

"I was just observing your photographs," said Mycroft. "All friends, no family."

"Did you learn deduction from Sherlock or vice versa?"

He chuckled to himself.

"Actually, while we're on the subject of pictures... I was wondering if you had any of Sherlock? Photos? Old home videos?"

"Why?"

"Well because I don't have any. And I thought it would be nice for the baby to have something of him; to know what he looked like beyond awkward shots in newspaper articles."

"You plan on telling the child about him?"

She furrowed her brow, almost laughing. "Why wouldn't I? Wait... sh-should I not?"

"Perhaps not the end bit."

He was so blunt it caught her off guard. His brother was dead, and yet he spoke about it with a dryness that made it seem as though he was expecting him to return at any moment. Perhaps it was denial. Or maybe they weren't that close. She daren't ask.

"Mr H-" she began. "Actually, I'm just going to call you Mycroft. Mycroft, why are you here? Because you don't seem the type to just pop in for tea."

He reluctantly took a seat on the couch. "There is a new apartment building currently under construction in central London. I came to see if you would consider moving there."

"Moving? Why?"

"They're larger, more secure, in a safer area."

She glared at him curiously. "You want me to... _move_?"

"I don't _want_ you to. Though you've already made it clear you will not accept financial support, I hoped you might accept my offer of a more comfortable home to raise your child." He paused. "Consider it a gift from Sherlock's side of the family," he finished, a touch of sarcasm in his tone.

"Why would you do that for me?"

He took a breath and let out a sigh. "I'm afraid my capabilities as an uncle are somewhat nonexistent because the prospect of becoming one was never on my agenda. I do not do well with children; I do not give piggybacks, I do not play-fight, I do not babysit. But what I _can_ do is ensure that you and the child are safe, comfortable and supported... from afar."

There was a long silence as she looked around her small flat, contemplating his offer. She glanced across to Mycroft, then down at the mug on the coffee table.

"You haven't touched your tea..." she said.

He gave a slight smile and stood up. "I'll be in contact."

"Do you have my phone number?"

"Why would I need that? I know where you live."

*

She took him up on his offer, telling herself sternly that it was the right thing to do; she was giving her child a nicer home, accepting help when she needed it most. But there was something in the back of her mind, niggling away, that made Mycroft's support feel like Sherlock was watching over her. Keeping her safe.

She sat on the couch in her new flat, watching television with a bowl of crisps balanced on her expanding bump. She was 30 weeks into her pregnancy and besides the odd visit from Rose, the baby kicking inside of her had been her only company.

She flicked through the channels, stopping on a documentary that caught her attention. She listened as the narrator talked about the history of feminism, the trailblazers and heroes that had paved the way for women everywhere.

A segment began about a woman named Genevieve Vaughan. Margaux found herself watching in awe of her philanthropy and peace activism, looking down at her bump and talking to it causally.

"I could name you after her, couldn't I? Genevieve for a girl, Vaughan for a boy. What do you think?"

She felt a kick that made the bowl tip over, spilling crisps over her new couch.

"I'll take that as a yes."

She cleaned up the mess, the simple task making her breathless and tired, before getting into bed and scrolling through her phone like she had done every night since Sherlock had died. She would start with the texts, reading through his messages and imagining his voice speaking them aloud.

They began short and blunt, giving her a time and place to meet or requesting her opinion on a case. But the further she scrolled over the months of them meeting, the more they changed. He would actually reply to her texts, a courtesy he did not afford many people. He would answer her questions and agree to meet her when she asked. She laughed when she got to a smiley face he had sent sarcastically after she called him rude. Then she got to his final message:

_'I'm sorry. S.'_

And like clockwork, tears fell, just as they did every night.

*

Margaux had tried to go back to work. But her mind had been too scattered; she was unable to focus, missing things and fumbling cases. She decided to quit, but knowing a man like Mycroft Holmes had its benefits; he had arranged for her to go on paid leave, sticking to his promise of caring for her from afar.

She walked through the corridor of St Bart's Hospital with an empty bag in her hand, turning into the labs and stopping suddenly when she saw Molly Hooper sitting behind a microscope.

"Margaux... hi."

"Hi." They hadn't seen each other since Sherlock's funeral, his death hanging over them like an elephant in the room.

"H-how are you?"

"I'm... yeah, I'm okay. How are you?"

She nodded with a smile. "I haven't seen you here in so long."

"I've actually just come to pick up some things I left here."

"Oh?"

"Yeah I er, I quit."

"Oh," she said again, more solemnly. "I wanted to call you, but..."

"It's okay. I haven't really been up to talking." She sighed and walked around the counter, watching Molly's eyes widen as her heavily pregnant frame finally came into view.

"Oh my gosh, Margaux... c-congratulations, I had no idea."

"Thanks." She smiled before falling silent.

Since her stomach had grown, she couldn't go anywhere without someone congratulating her; colleagues, strangers, old women in shops resting their hand on her bump without permission. At first she couldn't even bring herself to thank them, but as the months went by, she'd gotten used to smiling and nodding, sometimes not even correcting them when they included her 'partner' in their congratulations. But Molly knew Sherlock, she knew what his death had done to the people around him, and she couldn't bring herself to lie to her.

"It's Sherlock's..."

Molly's mouth fell open slightly, her eyes darting between Margaux's face and her bump. "It's... what?"

"Surprise," she said with a feeble laugh.

Molly seemed upset, almost panicked by the news. As if she knew something Margaux didn't, something that concerned her.

She stammered as she spoke, trying to collect her thoughts. "D-did.., did he _know_?"

"He died thinking I'd miscarried. I was planning to visit him that night and tell him the baby survived but erm... he died before I got the chance."

"Oh, Margaux."

She shook her head and lay a hand on her bump. "At least there's a part of him still here, ey?"

"Yeah..." Molly replied breathlessly, a look of sadness stitched across her face.

*

The August evening clung to sunlight, keeping the air warm and the sky bright. Margaux paced her flat, wincing in pain as contractions came in waves. She tried to keep her breathing slow as she gathered her things and packed them into a bag, her phone wedged between her ear and shoulder.

"Hi, can I speak to Mycroft Holmes please?"

The line went quiet for a moment as the receptionist patched her through. She bent forward, closing her eyes as the pain radiated across her stomach.

"Yes?" his voice sounded through the phone.

"Mycroft, it's me. I'm erm, I'm in labour."

"Okay..."

"I don't know, I just, I wanted to let you know I'm leaving for the hospital."

"Well I have organised a room for you. Do let me know if there are any issues."

She paused for a long time. "Is... is that it?"

"I don't know, are you in need of anything else?"

"No." She sighed. "No, Mycroft, it's fine."

She made her way downstairs, having to stop every few minutes to ride out her contractions. She stood on the edge of the street, bag over her shoulder as she clutched her stomach and waited for her cab.

*

She had spent an entire night alone in her private hospital room. Rose would pop in whenever she could, sitting with her and holding her hand before having to leave again. And in the moments she was by herself, she would do nothing but cry.

The door opened. Margaux looked up and let out a relieved cry when she saw Rose walk in, hurrying quickly towards the bed and taking her hand.

"I'm sorry Marg, I tried to get here as soon as I could."

"I hate this. How the hell have you managed to do this twice?"

Rose laughed and stroked her hair. "You're doing brilliantly."

She rolled onto her side and clamped her eyes shut, taking a long draw of gas and air. When she opened her eyes again, she saw Rose standing with a camera in her hand.

"What are you doing?"

"I'm filming you! You'll regret it if you don't have anything to look back on."

"Honestly, I don't think I'll give a sh–"she shut her eyes again, breathing deeply through another contraction.

"We're fourteen hours in," said Rose to the camera. "This woman is a hero."

Another six hours passed, each one more excruciating than the last, until finally it was over. She gave one last push, throwing her head back and covering her face with shaking hands as a loud, gargling cry filled the room.

"It's a boy," the doctor said with a smile.

"A boy?" she replied, her voice quivering.

They lay him on her chest and draped a blanket over him. She wrapped an arm around him instinctively, stroking his cheek with her finger.

"Did I miss it!?"

She looked up to see Rose rushing back into the room.

"I was only gone for an hour, I can't believe I bloody missed it!"

"Look," Margaux whimpered. "It's a baby boy."

She walked around the side of the bed to get a look at him. "Oh Marg he's beautiful," she said as she lifted the camera, quietly capturing the moment between Margaux and her new son.

Margaux glanced up at Rose, her face flushed, eyes glossy with tears. "I just wish he could have been here."

*

She opened the door to see Mycroft standing on the other side. He was holding a Manila envelope, his face plain until he locked eyes with her and suddenly his brow raised with the slightest fleck of concern.

Her hair was tied messily on top of her head, her eyes tired as she cradled her screaming baby, begging him to shush. Without a word, she went back inside, leaving the door open for him to follow.

Vaughan was two weeks old, tiny and fragile with plump cheeks and round, piercing blue eyes. The sight of him caught Mycroft off guard, as if he hadn't expected to see such a strong resemblance of his brother.

"Sorry, he just won't stop," she said as she bounced him in her arms, her voice breaking as if she were on the verge of tears. "Come on Vaughan, it's okay, ssh."

"If this is a bad time..."

"It's always a bad time," she replied bluntly. "I don't know what I'm doing wrong."

The baby's screams rang in his ears, making him wince.

"It's okay, love," she continued, her voice breaking again. "It's okay."

He watched as she paced back and forth in the living room, hugging him close to her chest and patting his back. She began to cry. It made him uncomfortable but he couldn't bring himself to leave; a feeling of guilt washing over him as he stood quietly, watching her break down.

"Sorry about this," she said, wiping her eyes and nose with her sleeve. "He's just, he's not sleeping well at night and he's always crying to be fed and I haven't got a clue what I'm doing..."

He didn't know what to say, looking down at the envelope in his hand and clearing his throat. "I wanted to bring this to you. As requested."

She took it from him and opened it awkwardly with one hand, sitting down on the couch as if her legs had given way beneath her. Inside the envelope was a photograph of a young boy with dark, curly hair and blue eyes. Behind it, another one of him as a young adult, standing in the living room of a house she didn't recognise, an almost-smile on his face.

She looked up at Mycroft and choked back a cry. "Thank you."

He gave gentle a nod.

"Ugh, I just can't stop crying. It's quite annoying." She wiped her eyes and let out a huff. "It's all so overwhelming. I mean, I never even planned on having kids and now I'm here and it's all just... aah."

"You never planned to have children?"

"No. Never wanted them."

"Then... why... did you go through with it?"

"Because he's Sherlock's," she said as she looked down at the photographs. "Because he said our baby would have been a good thing. And he died before I got to tell him." She paused. "Maybe if I'd told him, he wouldn't have gone."

She sniffed sharply as the tears ran down her cheeks, but her attention was quickly stolen by the fact that her son had finally stopped crying.

"He's asleep," she whispered, standing up slowly. "Just give me one second while I put him down."

Mycroft waited as she disappeared out of the room and returned moments later alone. It was now that he could really see how much she was struggling; it was in the shadows under her eyes, the red nose and puffy lips - it seemed all she had done was cry. Again, the guilt washed over him.

She sat back down and lifted the photographs again, looking at them carefully with a slight smile.

"Do you think Sherlock would have been good with him?" she asked.

"No," he replied bluntly.

"Jesus, Mycroft, you really know how to ease my grief."

"You shouldn't grieve."

She furrowed her brow. "I was... _sleeping_ with him before he died. I had his child. You don't think I'm entitled to grieve?"

"You're entitled. I just don't think you should."

She blinked in confusion, her lip quivering. "Why would you say that?"

He sighed. "Margaux, I-I feel I must... tell you something."

"What is it?"

"It's about Sherlock." He was struggling to get his words out. "You see, he... he-"

The baby began to scream again and he seemed almost relieved for the interruption.

"See, he just won't stay asleep," said Margaux as she took a deep breath and stood up. "Sorry, Mycroft. Please hold that thought, I swear I'll just be a second."

She hurried through to him, scooping him up in her arms and rocking him until he settled. She was too scared to put him down, so instead she carried him with her as she returned to the living room. But as she stepped into the room, Mycroft was gone.


	19. Double Date

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Requested on Wattpad: Sherlock, Margaux, John and Rose on a double date.

Double Date

John clasped his hands together and rested them on the table in front of him. He glanced at his watch before looking around the restaurant again. There was a calm atmosphere; music playing softly, the tables adorned with candles and gold centrepieces. Outside, the evening was setting in, a gentle rain pattering against the window.

He leaned forward slightly, talking in a hushed voice. "She wouldn't stand me up, would she?"

Across the table sat the Holmes'. Sherlock was staring off blankly, as if he were already so bored he had stopped paying attention altogether, while Margaux sat beside him, twirling the stem of her wine glass between her finger and thumb.

"No," she said. "Of course not."

She gave him a reassuring smile. Her lips were painted a deep mauve, eyes glittering beneath long, dark lashes. She'd dressed up for the occasion, and it was clear she'd forced her husband to make an effort too. His face was freshly-shaven and he was wearing a new shirt, John could tell by the way he fiddled with the cuffs and rolled his shoulders against the stiff material.

"She might have," said Sherlock bluntly, as if he were completely uninterested.

"No," Margaux countered quickly. "She hasn't. She hasn't, John, just... order another drink and I'll text her."

She grabbed her bag from under her chair and began to rummage through it. But as her hand finally clasped her phone, a voice chimed behind her.

"So sorry!" said Rose. She was flustered, hurrying quickly towards the table.

"Oh thank god," she said.

John stood up and greeted her with a smile, helping her take off her coat as Margaux leaned towards Sherlock.

"I don't think I could've coped with him moaning about being stood up all night," she muttered.

Sherlock's mouth curled into a smirk.

"I have had _the_ worst day," said Rose as she sat down. "Completely lost track of time."

"What happened?" asked Margaux.

"Ugh shop stuff. I've just hired a new girl and she messed up the inventory."

"Goodness," Sherlock began sarcastically. "It's a miracle you made it here at all."

She rolled her eyes. "I've been here two minutes and you've already started?"

He gave a shrug and took a sip of his drink.

He liked to give her a hard time, secretly charmed by her resistance to his quips. Rose gave as good as she got; un-phased by things others would find intimidating. 

"It's funny," said John. "All the years we've known each other and we've never done this before."

"That's because every time I bring up the idea of a double date, Sherlock comes up with an excuse not to," Margaux replied.

"How did you manage to get him to agree tonight?"

The couple went quiet. Sherlock pressed his mouth into a straight line while Margaux dropped her head to hide a smirk.

"Disgraceful," said Rose.

John tutted. "Didn't think you were the type to be persuaded by something like that, Sherlock."

"They've got five kids, of course he is."

"In my defence..." Sherlock began, pausing for a moment as he thought of an excuse.

"Oh you've got no defence," said John. "You're spending the evening with us in exchange for sex."

"Isn't it great? He's grown so much," said Margaux, pretending to wipe a tear from under her eye.

They laughed together, even Sherlock chuckled slightly, relaxing into the back of his chair.

*

The evening passed quickly, with John, Margaux and Rose holding up most of the conversation. They ordered more drinks, sipping them over candlelight as they waited for their meals.

Margaux hadn't seen John so content since Mary passed. He was smiling, charming and jovial as he rested his hand on the back of Rose's chair. Part of her wished Sherlock was more tactile, that he could take down his wall and show his affection for her in front of other people. But when she felt his hand on her thigh under the table, she couldn't help but smile. He had his ways, always knowing exactly when to reassure her of his love.

"You've been friends since school, right?" asked John as he swirled the ice in his drink.

The two women looked at each other and nodded with a laugh.

"We were in the same year all the way through from primary school," said Margaux. "But we didn't actually become friends until year eleven."

"How come?"

"We just never ran in the same circles," said Rose.

"That's her polite way of saying she was popular and I wasn't."

"Really?" John seems surprised. "I find it hard to believe you weren't popular."

"Oh, she hasn't always looked like this." Rose gestured to Margaux with a laugh. "People called her the 'weird girl'; she was this really skinny thing with the longest hair you've ever seen, she looked like a member of the Manson family."

Margaux laughed. "True."

"I wasn't any better looking, I was just the first girl in our year to grow boobs."

John dropped his head and laughed through his nose.

"How did you end up friends then?"

"Peter Mack had an allergic reaction in the middle of the dinner hall," Margaux replied.

"Peanuts or something. We came together to save his life," Rose finished smugly.

"Not quite," she laughed. "Rose noticed him first and called out for help. I was sitting nearby, went over and saw a label on his backpack saying he had an EpiPen. Fished it out, stuck it in his leg. He was fine. Whole thing lasted about ten minutes."

"We got given special awards in assembly the week after. Been friends ever since."

Sherlock furrowed his brow and turned to his wife. "You've never told me that before."

She shrugged. "Honestly, I forgot about it until just now. Plus, saving someone from anaphylaxis doesn't seem so impressive when you're married to Sherlock Holmes."

The waiter interrupted them, placing down their food and making small talk. Margaux noticed Sherlock looking at her, she squeezed his arm and laughed.

"You're not actually upset I never told you that, are you?"

"I just wonder why I've failed to ever ask how you met your best friend. Seems like an error on my part."

"Don't be ridiculous."

Rose pulled her plate towards her, talking as she picked up her knife and fork. "That's actually quite sweet of you, Shuttlecock. Shows you care."

He gave a sarcastic smile.

"What about you two?" she said. "Got any wild stories from your bachelor flatmate days? Spend your time beating off women with a stick?"

Sherlock's brows came together. "Why would I beat a woman with a stick?"

"It's an expression."

"I wouldn't exactly call us bachelors," said John. "I had a few relationships before I met Mary but nothing too serious. Never really had the time, what with Sherlock requiring round the clock supervision."

The two women laughed.

"I once found a woman in Sherlock's bed," said Margaux.

"No!" Rose gasped.

"Mhm. I was pregnant with Vaughan at the time too."

"Well that's not fair is it?" said Sherlock. "I didn't know she was pr-" He turned to her. " _You_ didn't even know you were pregnant."

"Shuttlecock, you sleaze."

"Oh it gets better..." said Margaux with a smirk. "She was a dominatrix."

Rose put down her cutlery and placed her hands on the table dramatically. "You are having a laugh. Why didn't you ever tell me about this!?"

"Because I was mortified! I think I blacked it out of my memory."

He held up his index finger. "I feel the need to stress the fact that nothing actually happened between the woman and I. I didn't even know she was in my bed."

"That sounds like the kind of excuse my ex would give, and he cheated on me through our entire relationship."

Margaux giggled. "You do have terrible taste in men. No offence, John."

He rolled his eyes.

Everyone fell into a comfortable silence as they ate. But Sherlock remained still. He'd been observing the way Rose interacted with John all night. The things she knew and the stories they shared - if a stranger were to guess which of the two couples were married, he was sure they'd choose them.

"Interesting..." he muttered to himself.

"What is?" asked John with a mouthful of food.

"How the four of us ended up here."

"How many drinks have you had?"

He turned his attention to Rose. "You just don't seem... his type..."

"Oh really?" she replied sharply, her back straightening. "How so?"

Margaux rolled her eyes and dug a fork into her pasta. "Just leave them to it," she said to John as she continued to eat.

"I highly doubt the two of you would have ever shown interest in one another if not for Margaux and I's relationship forcing you together."

"You saying I'm not good enough for your friend?"

"That's not what I said. But if that's your interpretation then perhaps you should look inward at your own insecurities..."

"Oh," she scoffed. "You want to talk insecurities?"

John held up his hand. "Alright, can we not?"

But Sherlock continued. "Surely it wouldn't bother you whether I thought you were good enough for him since you're not actually a couple..."

"It bothers me that after everything you put my best friend through, I managed to keep my mouth shut. Yet for some reason, you think it's your place to speak on my relationship with John."

"How could I speak on a non-existent relationship?"

"That's enough, Sherlock," John interjected. "She's my girlfriend, alright? I asked her to be my girlfriend last week. I won't have you talking to her like that."

A smug grin crept across Sherlock's face.

Rose turned to John and batted his arm. "What did you go and say that for!?"

"Wh-? He was being an arse!"

"Yes! To try and get us to admit we're together. And you just fell for it, you wolly."

"That was easier than I thought it would be," Sherlock said to Margaux.

She rolled her eyes and continued eating.

"I was winning," Rose huffed.

"A worthy opponent," Sherlock nodded.

John shook his head, completely bewildered by what just happened. "Right so clearly I have the IQ of this bread roll."

"I'd say you're more on par with that salt shaker," said Margaux.

"Oh cheers, Marg. I appreciate it." He turned his attention to Sherlock. "When did you realise?"

"What's that thing people say? About a spring in someone's step? You've bounced around the past week like you're riding a pogo stick."

"Aw." Rose smiled, nudging John's side.

"Why didn't you tell us?"

"I don't know, wanted to keep it to ourselves for a little while."

"Probably shouldn't have invited us for dinner then."

"Probably not."

"Well now we need to celebrate," said Margaux, clasping her hands together. "Let's finish up here and go somewhere for drinks."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Must we?"

"Yes," the three of them replied in unison.

*

The last time John visited a bar with Sherlock had been his stag night. He remembered pouring shots into their chemistry beakers, watching him loosen until they were stumbling the streets, laughing and slurring like drunken teenagers.

The music was blaring, the dark room flashing with coloured lights as the speakers thumped in their chests. Sherlock was blinking rapidly, his face laced with confusion as he wondered why his eyes wouldn't focus. They'd coaxed him into drinking. Each time his glass emptied, a full one would appear in front of him again.

He was sat at a table with an equally drunk Rose. Just Rose. He tried to remember where John and Margaux had gone but his brain wouldn't focus. It was like there was a party inside his mind palace, flashing lights and pounding dance music in every room.

"Do you know what," Rose began, slurring slightly as she shouted over the music. "I like you, Sherlock."

"Ha! You called me Sherlock."

"I-I-I just think... if Margaux Cave-"

"Holmes."

"And John Watson like you, well that's my best friend and my boyfriend isn't it. So I've got to trust their judgement on you." She finished with a hiccup, using it as an excuse to gulp down the rest of her drink. "D'you like me?"

"I don't like..." he began, concentrating hard on getting his words out clearly. "That you call me Shuttlecock."

"But do you like _me_?"

He turned to face her, staring hard at her face as if he were examining it. "Yeah," he finally said casually. "Sure, why not."

"Wait, wait, wait... wait," she mumbled as she fished her phone out of her bag. She unlocked it clumsily and pointed it at him. "Say that again."

"Say what?"

"That you like me."

"Are you filming me?"

"You're very drunk right now and I am also very drunk right now and I want proof of this in the morning."

John and Margaux stood together at the bar. John was swaying slightly, staring across the room in confusion.

"Is she recording him?" he shouted.

Margaux glanced over her shoulder. "Looks like it."

"Why?"

"Honestly, as long as they're not biting each other's heads off, I don't care."

"Hm." He continued to watch them for a moment before turning around. "I'm going to the wee because I need a toilet- I mean, I'm need to the toilet because I'm going... I mean-"

"Just go before you wet yourself," she laughed. "Lightweights, all of you!"

Margaux had drank a lot too, yet somehow, she still felt steady on her feet. Over the years, Sherlock had dealt with her drunkenness on many occasions; making her guzzle down water and listening to her nonsensical rants as he carried her up the stairs. She was almost excited for the tables to have turned, for her to be the one taking care of him.

As she waited to be served, she noticed a man eyeing her up from the other side of the bar. She averted her gaze, pretending not to have seen him. But within moments he was at her side.

"Hello there," he said.

"Hi." She gave a polite smile before looking down at her hands as they rested on the bar, wondering how he'd missed the glaringly obvious rings on her finger.

"You're looking lovely tonight."

"Thanks..."

"Can I buy you a drink?"

"I mean, if you want to. It's not going to get you anywhere though." She shrugged and gave an awkward laugh.

"Oof, you're breaking my heart!"

She suddenly felt a presence behind her, knowing immediately who it was before she even turned around.

"You came up here with John," said Sherlock drunkenly, pointing at the man. "That's not John."

"John went to the toilet."

"Ah, so you're taken," said the man.

"Yeah, by _me._ " Sherlock pointed to himself with his thumbs, his tone almost confrontational. "And guess what, she's buying _me_ a drink because equality."

"Okay," she said quickly, stifling a laugh as she rested a hand on his chest. "Why don't you go and sit back down?"

"Yeah go and sit down," the man interjected.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, scanning him from head to toe as small, jumbled deductions began to form in his mind.

"Y-you... you have a _dog_ called Sam," he said, almost like a proud child.

"Excuse me?"

"He's a German Shepherd."

"She."

"Damn."

"Wait, how do you know that? Who are you?"

Margaux sensed the shift in the man's tone. He was growing defensive, annoyed.

"I'm a _detective_ ," he said, reaching out and booping the man's nose with his finger.

"Okay, love, I think it's time to go," she said chirpily as she ushered him away from the bar.

"Yeah," the man began to shout. "Get him away from me before I knock him out."

"Rude," said Sherlock.

Margaux turned back and raised an eyebrow. "I wouldn't provoke him if I were you; even in the state he's in, you'd probably still lose that fight."

She sat him back down at the table, letting out a gasp when he grabbed her and pulled her onto his lap.

"What are you doing?" she laughed.

"He's so fun with a few shots down him!" said Rose.

"Fun? He almost got into a bar fight over there!" she laughed.

John appeared behind them. "A bar fight? Did Sherlock give unsolicited deductions again?"

"Yep."

He stumbled over to his seat beside Rose, his arm finding the back of her chair again, just like it had done in the restaurant.

"I'm calling a cab," said Margaux. "Do you two want to split it with us?"

Rose turned to John. "Oh no, let's stay out a bit longer. Please?"

"My lady woman has spoken..."

Margaux laughed. "Alright, well I'm just stepping outside to make the call. Keep an eye on my husband please."

"I'll come with you, I need fresh air," said Rose.

The two men watched as they took each other by the hand and weaved through the crowds towards the doors. John shuffled his chair clumsily around the table until they were side-by-side.

"We've landed on our feet, haven't we," he said with a slur.

"What do you mean?" asked Sherlock.

"Well, after everything we've been through, we've somehow managed to come out of it with two great women. I think we've done alright for ourselves if I do say so myself."

"Mm, I suppose we have."

"Are you going to remember any of this in the morning?"

Sherlock pondered for a moment. "Nope."


	20. Christmas

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Several months after Eurus's game, Sherlock, Margaux and Vaughan spend their first Christmas at 221B as a real family.
> 
> All the best, guys!

Christmas

The fire crackled in 221B as lights twinkled in the Garland that lay strewn across the mantel. They glittered in the reflection of Mrs Hudson's sherry glass as she sat back in an armchair, flushed cheeks and a tipsy smile. The flat was calm and warm, comfortably quiet as the remnants of their small Christmas Eve party lay scattered around the living room.

Margaux sat on the floor with a pile of presents at her side, a roll of wrapping paper spread out in front of her and a strip of sellotape between her teeth. She was humming a Christmas song as Mrs Hudson tried to sing along, tapping her foot and making up her own words.

"Oh." Mrs Hudson sat up slightly. "What's that one that goes 'do do do do, do do do do'..."

Margaux stopped wrapping as she thought for a moment. "Paul McCartney?" She began to sing. " _Simply having a wonderful Christmas time..._ "

"Ah that's it. Did he do that other one that goes 'do do do do'?"

"No that's John Lennon. War is Over."

Sherlock emerged from the landing, making his way into the kitchen as he listened to them.

"Oh well they're both Beatles," said Mrs Hudson. "I was close enough."

Margaux laughed.

"What about 'do do do, do do do do do'?"

"Wham?"

"Oh yes of course it is."

Sherlock stepped into the archway with a raised eyebrow. "How are you possibly guessing correctly from a couple of 'do's?"

"You're not the only one with an encyclopaedic brain," she replied. "Go on, hum any song and I bet I'll guess it right."

"I don't _hum_."

She rolled her eyes and continued her wrapping while Mrs Hudson poured herself a top up. Sherlock walked past them towards the window, neither paying much attention to him until a melody began to play. Margaux turned to see him with the violin to his chin and smiled before snapping her fingers and pointing at him.

"Carol of the Bells."

He stopped playing and glared at her.

"Give me a _challenge_ , Sherlock."

He thought for a moment and drew the bow across the strings. Only a single note rang in the air when she called out again.

"Tchaikovsky."

He huffed and put the violin back in its stand as Mrs Hudson giggled behind her hand. He walked over to his armchair.

"Oh, careful," said Mrs Hudson.

He looked down to see a small plastic doll tucked between the cushions. He picked it up and examined it for a moment.

"Oh, John's forgot Rosie's doll," she continued. "No doubt he'll suffer trying to get her to sleep without it."

"Mm." He walked across the room and picked up his scarf, wrapping it around his neck and reaching for his coat.

"Where are you going?" asked Margaux.

"To give it back to them."

"Now?"

"They only left half an hour ago."

"But it's Christmas Eve, a cab will cost a fortune."

"Call it a good deed." He shrugged. "Christmas spirit and all that."

"You just want to get away from our singing."

He winked at her with a slight smile before disappearing out of the flat.

"Aw, he's nice when he wants to be, isn't he," said Mrs Hudson.

"It's why I love him," she replied as she slid another gift onto the paper.

"Oh I just love seeing the two of you so happy, especially at this time of year." She covered her mouth as if she were disguising a cry. "I just think of how awful tomorrow would've been if you'd..."

"Died?"

She nodded, placing a hand on her alcohol-flushed cheek.

Margaux chuckled. "Well Vaughan's gifts probably wouldn't be wrapped at all. You know what Sherlock says: 'what's the point in wrapping something that's going to be opened a few hours later?'"

"Oh he can be such a Scrooge. But he enjoys it all really."

"You think so?"

"I do; he enjoys seeing you happy."

"And alive."

"Oh don't say that. The thought of it..." She closed her eyes and shook her head.

It had been over half a year since Margaux was shot, and while her new life at 221B had become comfortably familiar, the scar on her neck still twinged, her shoulder still aching if she moved too much. But the nightmares had begun to dwindle, the fear that Sherlock would fall out of love with her fading to almost nothing. She was alive and she was happy. For the first time in a long time, everyone was happy.

*

Sherlock yanked off his scarf and threw it onto the couch, feeling a shiver run down his back as the warmth of the flat met his cold skin.

Margaux was sitting in his armchair with her knees to her chest. There was a pile of presents laid out in the middle of the room next to a plate of half-eaten mince pie and bitten carrot. She was holding a glass of milk, a grimace on her face as she looked up at him.

"Would you like _me_ to do that?" he asked.

"Please." She sighed, holding the glass up to him. "I almost heaved just thinking about it."

He took the milk and drank it down, leaving only the dregs at the bottom. "You know you could have just tipped it down the sink..." he said as he put it down next to the other things.

"I know, it just seemed wasteful."

He looked around, almost confused by the quiet. "Where's Mrs Hudson?"

"She went back downstairs, I think she overdid it on the sherry."

"Wouldn't be Christmas if she didn't."

She giggled.

He approached her quietly, stopping in front of her and placing his hands on his hips.

"What?" she said.

"You're in my chair."

She rolled her eyes and stood up, stepping aside for him to sit down. He lowered himself onto the soft leather, and without a word, he tugged her towards him. She fell gently onto his lap, smiling as she felt his hand on her back, the other on her thigh. She lay her head on his chest, watching the fire as it began to burn out.

"Did you get the doll back to its rightful owner?" she asked.

"I did indeed. They were very grateful."

She let out a loud yawn. "Bloody hell, I'm so tired."

"You should have just gone to bed."

"Nah, I wanted to wait up for you, I like wishing you Merry Christmas at midnight."

"Well." He glanced at his watch. "You are... three minutes early."

"Damn. You'll just have to wait."

He chuckled softly and began twirling a strand of her hair between his fingers.

"This time last year I was sat in that armchair over there, secretly wishing I could walk over and cuddle you like this."

"I remember. You asked what I thought this night would look like in ten years time. I said it would look exactly as it did that night."

"Oh how wrong you were."

"And how glad I am to be wrong."

She knew he still struggled to speak so openly; his affection only coming in fleeting moments that would make her stomach flutter and cheeks grow warm. She placed her hand on the side of his face and leaned up to kiss him.

"I love you," she said.

"I love you too. And it's midnight."

"Ah, well Merry Christmas."

He gave a subtle smile. "Merry Christmas."

*

Morning crept in through the curtains, the dark sky glowing with deep purples and blues as Margaux began to stir. She rolled over and draped her arm over Sherlock, nestling against his back and revelling in the warmth radiating from his body.

"Good morning," he croaked quietly.

"Good morning," she replied. "Didn't realise you were awake."

"I wasn't until I felt this thing come crashing down on me." He wrapped his fingers around her wrist and lifted her arm.

She giggled and swatted his hand away.

He rolled over to face her with a sleepy smile, stroking the hair out of her eyes and pulling her close to him.

"What time is it?" he asked.

"I have no idea. I'm guessing it's early since the little monster upstairs hasn't come running in yet."

"Then why are you up?"

She rolled her shoulder and let out a sigh. "My collarbone's giving me grief. Can't get comfy."

He placed a hand on her shoulder and ran his thumb gently over her scar. "Anything I can do?"

"You got any morphine?" she asked jokingly.

"Not since you banned me from keeping drugs in the flat."

"Damn."

He shifted the duvet and sat up, his dark curls wild and sticking up at the back of his head.

"What are you doing?" asked Margaux.

"I'm getting up."

"No, don't do that. Stay here with me."

He raised an eyebrow and looked down at her. "You _just_ said you're in pain..."

"Not for that," she laughed. "I just want you to lie with me a little longer. Seems a crime for a parent to waste the opportunity for peace and quiet."

He sat there for a moment before giving in and lying back down. She curled up against him, fidgeting until she found a comfortable position before melting into his side. She sighed happily, the sound causing a small smile to tug at the corner of his mouth.

But like clockwork, there was a thud above them, followed by the sound of tiny footsteps running across the ceiling.

"The 'monster' has awoken," he said.

*

The floor had disappeared beneath a sea of wrapping paper. Vaughan sat amongst the mess of boxes and plastic packaging, his excited mind unable to focus on one single toy. Margaux sat with him on the floor, watching as he bounced from car to doll, play set to colouring book.

Sherlock walked in from the kitchen with a cup of tea in each hand, tripping over the mess and catching himself smoothly without spilling a drop. He handed a cup to Margaux before taking his usual seat in the armchair.

"What time will people be getting here?" he asked.

"They won't," she replied.

"Hm?"

"Well, John's taking Rosie to spend Christmas with his sister and her new girlfriend, Mrs Hudson's gone to _her_ sister's, your parents are in South America and Mycroft is here in London but declined the invitation."

"Sounds about right."

"Mhm. So it's just the three of us."

"Oh..." He took a sip of tea, hiding a pleased smile.

"You seem absolutely devastated."

"Heartbroken."

She rolled her eyes and got up, cradling her cup in one hand and yanking the curtains open with the other. She let out a gasp.

"What?"

"Vaughan, come and look at this," she said brightly.

The little boy stood up and ran to his mother's side. She scooped him in her arm and held him up to the window, grinning as his blue eyes sparkled even brighter than usual.

"Snow!" he shouted.

"Really?" said Sherlock as he joined them. "Well look at that, snow on Christmas Day, how cliché."

"Down! I want to go down!" said Vaughan as he clapped his hands excitedly.

"Well come on then," he replied as he hurried across the room, Vaughan chasing close behind.

He dressed him in a coat, scarf and woolly hat before tucking his pyjama bottoms into a pair of Wellington boots and putting on his own coat.

She turned back to the window, looking down onto the quiet street as it glittered with a blanket of undisturbed snow. The sound of the front door echoed from downstairs and suddenly, the two of them came into view. She covered her mouth and laughed as she watched them playing; scooping the snow into their hands and throwing it into the air. It was as if Sherlock became a different person around his son; brimming with energy, animating his voice, smiling without concern of who was watching.

They built a small snowman on the doorstep. Sherlock crouched beside it with his hand on his son's shoulder, admiring their work proudly.

"I know what it needs," he said, before slipping off his scarf and draping it around the snowman's neck.

"And this." Vaughan pulled off his hat and placed it on its head.

"You know, I think this may be the most well-dressed snowman on Baker Street."

"What's his name?"

"How about..."

"Wilson."

"Wilson?"

He nodded.

"Alright," he laughed. "Wilson Holmes."

"The best snowman ever."

Margaux opened the door and peered her head out into the cold. "Are you two coming back in at any point?"

"No!" Vaughan shouted as he began to run away.

Sherlock chased him down the street and grabbed him, hoisting him up and throwing him over his shoulder. He carried him back inside, the boy kicking and giggling as they went.

*

The evening was creeping in quickly, the flat alight with the glow of the Christmas tree and roaring fire. Vaughan was playing with his new toys while Margaux poured herself a drink in the kitchen. Sherlock walked in and stood behind her, looking over her shoulder at the bottle of champagne in her hand.

"Want one?" she asked.

"Why not."

She smiled and lifted another glass from the cupboard. "Dinner shouldn't be much longer."

"You made... Christmas dinner?" he asked, almost nervously.

She turned around and handed him the drink. "Yes. Problem?"

He cleared his throat. "No... no it's erm..."

"Mrs Hudson made it. Left me instructions on how to heat it all up."

"Thank god."

She batted his arm. "Is my cooking _really_ that bad?"

He placed his hand on the back of her neck and kissed the side of her head. "It's okay, darling. We can't all be good at everything."

She rolled her eyes. "Drink up and shush."

He chuckled to himself as he walked back into the living room.

Sherlock couldn't recall another Christmas where his attention hadn't been stolen by a case. Ever since he was a child, he found the festivities boring; his mind wandering to mysteries, to stories of murder and puzzles he was yet to solve. But somehow, as he sat down in his chair and looked down at his son, at his girlfriend drinking champagne in the kitchen, he realised he hadn't thought of work once.

*

Margaux sat on the couch with her arm around Vaughan as he curled into her side. In front of them, Sherlock stood playing his violin, the warm Christmas lights softening the angles of his face.

The song was one of Margaux's favourites, Clair de Lune - Debussy. She relaxed into the couch and closed her eyes as she listened to him play, unsure if there had ever been a time when she felt more content.

The playing faded until the flat fell silent. She opened her eyes to see him placing the violin back in its stand.

"Why did you stop?"

He pointed.

She looked down to see Vaughan asleep at her side and tutted softly. "Bless him."

"I'll carry him upstairs," Sherlock whispered.

"Do you think he's had a good day?"

He lifted him carefully and cradled him in his arms like a baby. "Of course. Why wouldn't he?"

"I just want him to have good memories when he's older. Not like me, only now starting to enjoy this time of year."

"He will have nothing but good memories."

She smiled appreciatively and sank back into the couch, listening to the creaking of the stairs as Sherlock carried Vaughan to bed. She closed her eyes and began to hum quietly, picking up the song where he had left off.

"Lovely."

She opened her eyes, slightly startled to see him standing in the doorway. "Thanks," she said with a breathy laugh.

He walked towards her and extended his arm. She looked down to see a small, flat box in his hand.

"What's this?" she asked.

"Your present."

"You already gave me a present."

"This is your _actual_ present."

She took it from him, her brow raised curiously. "Not wrapped?"

"You know I see no point in wrapping paper."

"I know," she laughed.

He sat down beside her as she opened it, watching her face carefully and assessing her reaction.

Her mouth fell open as she took in a gentle gasp. "Sherlock..."

Inside the box was a necklace. A delicate gold chain with a small coin-shaped pendant. She brought it close to her face, noticing the 'V' engraved on the pendant.

"Did you pick this?" she asked.

"If you like it then yes. If you don't then no, it was John."

She covered her mouth and laughed. "I love it. I really love it, thank you, Sherlock."

"I planned to give it to you tonight because I thought we'd be surrounded with people all day."

She twisted her body to face him, placing a hand on his cheek and pulling him into a kiss. "You're so lovely."

He rolled his eyes.

"I know you hate it when I say that, but you are. You're lovely."

"Only to you."

"That's fine by me. Makes me feel... special."

He laughed slightly and kissed her again.

"For two people who aren't so fond of Christmas, I'd say we've had quite a successful day," she said.

"I've thoroughly enjoyed it."

She narrowed her eyes, searching for a hint of sarcasm in his tone. But there was none.

"So," she began jokingly. "When you think of this night ten years from now, is it just like this?"

He dropped his head and breathed out a laugh. "I have no idea." He paused. "But one thing I am certain of, is that I will still love you."

She ran her fingers through his hair and smiled. "That's a much better answer than the one you gave last year."


End file.
